#AmericanWriters
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
Among of green stiff old
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
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
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go