#AmericanWriters
As the immense dew of Florida Brings forth The big-finned palm And green vine angering for life, As the immense dew of Florida
That’s what misery is, Nothing to have at heart. It is to have or nothing. It is a thing to have, A lion, an ox in his breast,
You dweller in the dark cabin, To whom the watermelon is always p… Whose garden is wind and moon, Of the two dreams, night and day, What lover, what dreamer, would ch…
Opusculum paedagogum. The pears are not viols, Nudes or bottles. They resemble nothing else. II
First Girl When this yokel comes maundering, Whetting his hacker, I shall run before him, Diffusing the civilest odors
A sunny day’s complete Poussinian… Divide it from itself. It is this… And it is not. By metaphor you paint A thing. Thus, the pineapple was…
The poem must resist the intellige… Almost successfully. Illustration… A brune figure in winter evening r… Identity. The thing he carries re… The most necessitous sense. Accep…
Poetry is the supreme fiction, mad… Take the moral law and make a nave… And from the nave build haunted he… The conscience is converted into p… Like windy citherns hankering for…
Pour the unhappiness out From your too bitter heart, Which grieving will not sweeten. Poison grows in this dark. It is in the water of tears
At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outs… Seemed like a sound in his mind. He knew that he heard it, A bird’s cry at daylight or before…
Light the first light of evening,… In which we rest and, for small re… The world imagined is the ultimate… This is, therefore, the intensest… It is in that thought that we coll…
To sing jubilas at exact, accustom… To be crested and wear the mane of… And so, as part, to exult with its… To speak of joy and to sing of it,… The shoulders of joyous men, to fe…
There were ghosts that returned to… As he sat there reading, aloud, th… They were those from the wildernes… There were those that returned to… Of the pans above the stove, the p…
Her terrace was the sand And the palms and the twilight. She made of the motions of her wri… The grandiose gestures Of her thought.
Granted, we die for good. Life, then, is largely a thing Of happens to like, not should. And that, too, granted, why Do I happen to like red bush,