#AmericanWriters
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…
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
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...
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one