#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
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...
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
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…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
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...
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
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky