#AmericanWriters
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
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…
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
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
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...
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream