#AmericanWriters
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
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
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
