#AmericanWriters
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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,
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
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,