(1921)
#AmericanWriters
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
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…
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 thefield by force; the grass
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
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
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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...
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang