#AmericanWriters
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
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…
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…