#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
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
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
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
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...
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
