#AmericanWriters
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,