(1923)
#AmericanWriters
Among of green stiff old
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
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...
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
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…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow