#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…