#AmericanWriters
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
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…
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
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—