#AmericanWriters
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
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…
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Among of green stiff old
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
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
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…
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,