#AmericanWriters
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
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...
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
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...
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter