(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
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…
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
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
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang