#AmericanWriters
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
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,…
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich