#AmericanWriters
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
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...