#AmericanWriters
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...