#Activities #AmericanWriters #MoneyAndEconomics #SocialCommentaries
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
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.
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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…
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
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.
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…