#AmericanWriters
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
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
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides