#1923 #AmericanWriters #ThreeStoriesAndTenPoems
We were in a garden at Mons. Young Buckley came in with his patrol from across the river. The first German I saw climbed up over the garden wall. We waited till he got one leg over and ...
They hanged Sam Cardinella at six o’clock in the morning in the corridor of the county jail. The corridor was high and narrow with tiers of cells on either side. All the cells were occu...
They whack whacked the white horse on the legs and he knee-ed himself up. The picador twisted the stirrups straight and pulled and hauled up into the saddle. The horse’s entrails hung d...
Men went happily to death But they were not the men Who marched For years Up to the line.
So now, Losing the three last night, Taking them back today, Dripping and dark the woods . . .
Minarets stuck up in the rain out of Adrianople across the mud flats. The carts were jammed for thirty miles along the Karagatch road. Water buffalo and cattle were hauling carts throug...
In the fall the war was always there, but we did not go to it any more. It was cold in the fall in Milan and the dark came very early. Then the electric lights came on, and it was pleas...
There was a cat named Crazy Chris… Who never lived long enough to scr… He was gay hearted, young and hand… And all the secrets of life he kne… He would always arrive on time for…
If it happened right down close in front of you, you could see Villalta snarl at the bull and curse him, and when the bull charged he swung back firmly like an oak when the wind hits it...
The mills of the gods grind slowly… But this mill Chatters in mechanical staccato. Ugly short infantry of the mind, Advancing over difficult terrain,
In the rain in the rain in the rai… Does it rain in Spain? Oh yes my dear on the contrary and… The dancers dance in long white pa… It isn’t right to yence your aunts
He tried to spit out the truth; Dry—mouthed at first, He drooled and slobbered in the en… Truth dribbling his chin.
All of the Indians are dead (a good Indian is a dead Indian) Or riding in motor cars— (the oil lands, you know, they’re… Smoke smarts my eyes,
The age demanded that we sing And cut away our tongue. The age demanded that we flow And hammered in the bung. The age demanded that we dance
The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the si...