#AmericanWriters
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,