#AmericanWriters
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
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,
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
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...
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
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.
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go