#AmericanWriters
Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded grass; Hooded gentians all a’mass. Warmth of earth, and cloudless win…
I wandered through a house of many… It grew darker and darker, Until, at last, I could only find… By passing my fingers along the wa… Suddenly my hand shot through an o…
Alone, I whet my soul against the… Unwrinkled sky, with its long stre… I polish it with sunlight and pale… And damascene it with young blowin… Into the handle of my life I set
Be not angry with me that I bear Your colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye,
Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gow… High-waisted, girdled with bright… A straw poke bonnet which hid the… She pluckered her little brows int… As she picked her dainty passage t…
I have whetted my brain until it i… So keen that it nicks off the floa… So sharp that the air would turn i… Were it to be twisted in flight. Licking passions have bitten their…
Some men there are who find in nat… Their inspiration, hers the sympat… Which spurs them on to any great e… To them the fields and woods are c… And they hold dear communion with…
In the brown water, Thick and silver-sheened in the su… Liquid and cool in the shade of th… A pike dozed. Lost among the shadows of stems
They brought me a quilled, yellow… Opulent, flaunting. Round gold Flung out of a pale green stalk. Round, ripe gold
By day you cannot see the sky For it is up so very high. You look and look, but it’s so blu… That you can never see right throu… But when night comes it is quite p…
A great tall column spearing at th… With a little man on top. Goodnes… He looks a silly thing enough to s… What a strange fellow, like a sold… Tight-fitting coat with the tails…
The Poet took his walking-stick Of fine and polished ebony. Set in the close-grained wood Were quaint devices; Patterns in ambers,
All day long I have been working, Now I am tired I call: “Where are you?” But there is only the oak-tree rus… The house is very quiet,
When I have baked white cakes And grated green almonds to spread… When I have picked the green crow… And piled them, cone-pointed, in a… When I have smoothed the seam of…
The snow whispers around me And my wooden clogs Leave holes behind me in the snow. But no one will pass this way Seeking my footsteps,