#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
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 the field by force; the grass
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…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
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...
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
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