#AmericanWriters
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
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 . . .
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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,
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely