#AmericanWriters
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway