Add to ORKGI would write with the wind in my hand: I would smash with foamy fists of waves At the fracturing ic...
not even eternities are made to last when you\u27re nineteen and the first moist-grass day of spring...
I will go now, when the campus light is dim, In the fresh fall wind of September, I will go now and ...
When the last of the wood has been gathered in, And the stove shows rust where polish has been, The ...
The dry day dies as many have before, In the steel-gray death of a bloodless sun; Mortician night sh...
The deepening light of the setting sun, Scattered by bare branches on the hill top, Danced in linger...
EAT lies like a sticky hand over the little Nebraska town. The last drop of moisture has been wrung ...
In the first year of peace, the springtime sun Shone long on a wintry scene, but naturally No one co...
Iron-gray sunless day, Opaque coat of clouds, Tree bodies dark with wet, Sidewalks cold with wet,..
FEBRUARY had been a damp, chill month with none of the violence of winter. Snow, which seemed to mel...
THE night air, heavy now that dew covered the grass, pressed into the house without moving the curta...
April, Its spent blossoms Blown in drifts on the lawn, Lifts its many promised fingers To May..
I pause and watch the mallards spear The air in long, ragged V-lines, Ragged like the stalk-littered...
I SHIVERED underneath by heavy coat and forced my mittened hands more firmly into my pockets. The wi...
. . . of fall quarter, 1947. Beautiful Indian summer until cold snow in November. Several rainy week...
I would write with the wind in my hand: I would smash with foamy fists of waves At the fracturing ic...
not even eternities are made to last when you\u27re nineteen and the first moist-grass day of spring...
I will go now, when the campus light is dim, In the fresh fall wind of September, I will go now and ...
When the last of the wood has been gathered in, And the stove shows rust where polish has been, The ...
The dry day dies as many have before, In the steel-gray death of a bloodless sun; Mortician night sh...
The deepening light of the setting sun, Scattered by bare branches on the hill top, Danced in linger...
EAT lies like a sticky hand over the little Nebraska town. The last drop of moisture has been wrung ...
In the first year of peace, the springtime sun Shone long on a wintry scene, but naturally No one co...
Iron-gray sunless day, Opaque coat of clouds, Tree bodies dark with wet, Sidewalks cold with wet,..
FEBRUARY had been a damp, chill month with none of the violence of winter. Snow, which seemed to mel...
THE night air, heavy now that dew covered the grass, pressed into the house without moving the curta...
April, Its spent blossoms Blown in drifts on the lawn, Lifts its many promised fingers To May..
I pause and watch the mallards spear The air in long, ragged V-lines, Ragged like the stalk-littered...
I SHIVERED underneath by heavy coat and forced my mittened hands more firmly into my pockets. The wi...
. . . of fall quarter, 1947. Beautiful Indian summer until cold snow in November. Several rainy week...
I would write with the wind in my hand: I would smash with foamy fists of waves At the fracturing ic...
not even eternities are made to last when you\u27re nineteen and the first moist-grass day of spring...
I will go now, when the campus light is dim, In the fresh fall wind of September, I will go now and ...