#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…