#AmericanWriters
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,