#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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…
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...
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
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…
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…