#AmericanWriters
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
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…
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…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
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
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
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…
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.