#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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...
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
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
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
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…