#AmericanWriters
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
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,
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…