#AmericanWriters
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
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…
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…
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
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.