(1921)
#AmericanWriters
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
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
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich