Cornhuskers. 1918.
#AmericanWriters
Hope is a tattered flag and a drea… Hope is a heartspun word, the rain… The evening star inviolable over t… The shimmer of northern lights acr… The blue hills beyond the smoke of…
AFTER you have spent all the money modistes and manicures and mannikins will take for fixing you over into a thing the people on the streets call proud and beautiful, After the shops an...
I SAW a telegram handed a two hundred pound man at a desk. And the little scrap of paper charged the air like a set of crystals in a chemist’s tube to a whispering pinch of salt. Cross ...
THE dago shovelman sits by the ra… Eating a noon meal of bread and bo… A train whirls by, and men and wom… Alive with red roses and yellow jo… Eat steaks running with brown grav…
DUST of the feet And dust of the wheels, Wagons and people going, All day feet and wheels. Now. . .
A MILLION young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads, And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red ro...
ONCE when I saw a cripple Gasping slowly his last days with… Looking from hollow eyes, calling… Desperately gesturing with wasted… In the dark and dust of a house do…
YOUR whitelight flashes the fros… Moon of the purple and silent west… Remember me one of your lovers of…
THIRTY-TWO Greeks are dipping… Sloshing their bare feet in a cool… All one midsummer day ten hours th… stand in leather shoes shoveling g… Now they hold their toes and ankle…
Many ways to say good night. Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth… spell it with red wheels and yello… They fizz in the air, touch the wa… Rockets make a trajectory of gold-…
IN the newspaper office—who are t… Who wears the mythic coat invisibl… Who pussyfoots from desk to desk with a speaking forefinger? Who gumshoes amid the copy paper
THE WIND stops, the wind begins… The wind says stop, begin. A sea shovel scrapes the sand floo… The shovel changes, the floor chan… The sandpipers, maybe they know.
I AM the mist, the impalpable mis… Back of the thing you seek. My arms are long, Long as the reach of time and spac… Some toil and toil, believing,
There are no handles upon a langua… Whereby men take hold of it And mark it with signs for its rem… It is a river, this language, Once in a thousand years
CRIMSON is the slow smolder of… Gray is the ash that stiffens and… (A great man I know is dead and w… coffin a gone flame I sit here in… and smoke and watch my thoughts co…