#AmericanWriters
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
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
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…
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
