#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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—
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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…
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...
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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,
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
