#AmericanWriters
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
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,
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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…
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,