#AmericanWriters
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
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—
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
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
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…