#AmericanWriters
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
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
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,
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!