#AmericanWriters
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...
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