#AmericanWriters
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
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…
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Among of green stiff old
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.