#AmericanWriters
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
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
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left