#AmericanWriters
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
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
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
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 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.
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
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…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
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.