#AmericanWriters
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.