#AmericanWriters
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine