#AmericanWriters
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
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,…
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang