#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
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
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...
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
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
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 the field by force; the grass
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
