(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
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…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it: