#AmericanWriters
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
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…
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…