#AmericanWriters
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
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
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
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…
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich