#AmericanWriters
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…