#AmericanWriters
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
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
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
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...
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire