#AmericanWriters
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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…
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
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
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
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
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
