#AmericanWriters
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…