#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
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
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
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...
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
