(1916)
#AmericanWriters
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
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
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.