#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—