#AmericanWriters
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
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
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…
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…
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!
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
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
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…
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,