#AmericanWriters
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
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.
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;
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich