#AmericanWriters
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
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…
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 crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses