(1921)
#AmericanWriters
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
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
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor