#AmericanWriters
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…
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream