#AmericanWriters
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
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
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and