#AmericanWriters
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass