#AmericanWriters
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
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—
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind