(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,