#AmericanWriters
The calloused grass lies hard Against the cracking plain: Life is a grayish stain; The salt-marsh hems my yard. Dry dikes rise hill on hill;
Incarnate for our marriage you app… Flesh living in the spirit and end… By minor graces and slow, sensual… Through every nerve we made our sp… We fed our minds on every mortal t…
Amid the iris and the rose, The honeysuckle and the bay, The wild earth for a moment goes In dust or weed another way. Small though its corner be, the we…
Where am I now? And what Am I to say portends? Death is but death, and not The most obtuse of ends. No matter how one leans
My mother Foresaw deaths And walked among Chrysanthemums, Winecolored,
Europe: 1944 as regarded from a great distance Impersonal the aim Where giant movements tend; Each man appears the same;
Reptilian green the wrinkled throa… Green as a bough of yew the beard; He bent his head, and so I smote; Then for a thought my vision clear… The head dropped clean; he rose an…
I could tell Of silence where One ran before Himself and fell Into silence
On the desert, between pale mounta… Far whispers creeping through an a… Coyote, on delicate mocking feet, Hovers down the canyon, among the… His voice running wild in the wind…
Now every leaf, though colorless,… With disembodied and celestial lig… And drops without a movement or a… A pillar of darkness to the shifti… The lucent, thin, and alcoholic fl…
The night was faint and sheer; Immobile, road and dune. Then, for a moment, clear, A plane moved past the moon. O spirit cool and frail,
The grandeur of deep afternoons, The pomp of haze on marble hills, Where every white-walled villa swo… Through violence that heat fulfill… Pass tirelessly and more alone
The young are quick of speech. Grown middle-aged, I teach Corrosion and distrust, Exacting what I must. A poem is what stands
Dear Emily, my tears would burn y… But for the fire-dry line that mak… Burning my eyes, my fingers, while… Singly the words that crease my he… If I could make some tortured pil…
Who knows Where my sight goes, What your sight shows— Where the peachtree blows? The frogs sing