(1923)
#AmericanWriters
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
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...
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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…
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge