#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
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
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
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
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity