#AmericanWriters
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand