#AmericanWriters
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
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,
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
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.