#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
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…
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...
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
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
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
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
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.
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on