#AmericanWriters
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees