#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
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…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
