#AmericanWriters
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
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
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good