#AmericanWriters
or a man out of the ashes of false dawn muttering 'hot-dog’ to the night watchmen: Is there a spieler who has spoken the word or taken the number of night’s nothings? am I the spieler? ...
I could love you as dry roots love rain. I could hold you as branches in the wind brandish petals.
THE working girls in the morning… long lines of them afoot amid the… and factories, thousands with litt… lunches wrapped in newspapers unde… Each morning as I move through th…
THE child’s wonder At the old moon Comes back nightly. She points her finger To the far silent yellow thing
SHINE on, O moon of summer. Shine to the leaves of grass, cata… All silver under your rain to-nigh… An Italian boy is sending songs t… A Polish boy is out with his best…
Into the blue river hills The red sun runners go And the long sand changes And to-day is a goner And to-day is not worth haggling o…
Poland, France, Judea ran in her… Singing to Paris for bread, singi… ‘Won’t you come and play wiz m… ‘Higgeldy-Piggeldy,' 'Papa’… Did she wash her feet in a tub of…
I WANTED a man’s face looking i… of life With something proud on his face,… of the jaws, No gulp of the throat leaves the f…
A father sees his son nearing manh… What shall he tell that son? ‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock… And this might stand him for the s… and serve him for humdrum monotony
Millions of men go to war, acres of them are buried, guns and ships broken, cities burned, villages sent up in smoke, and children where cows are killed off amid hoarse barbecues vanish...
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders, Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers—O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl—in the saddest play t...
SMOKE of the fields in spring is… Smoke of the leaves in autumn anot… Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a ba… They all go up in a line with a sm… Or they twist … in the slow twist…
TAKE a hold now On the silver handles here, Six silver handles, One for each of his old pals. Take hold
THREE violins are trying their h… The piece is MacDowell’s Wild Ro… And the time of the wild rose And the leaves of the wild rose And the dew-shot eyes of the wild…
LIPS half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hour…