#AmericanWriters
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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,…
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
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
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
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
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—