#AmericanWriters
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
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
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…
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves