#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
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,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
