#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
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...
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
