#AmericanWriters
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
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—
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.