(1923)
#AmericanWriters
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
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:
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
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
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge