(1923)
#AmericanWriters
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
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…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
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
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,
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
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The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest