#AmericanWriters
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
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 green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
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...
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,