#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
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 thefield by force; the grass
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
Among of green stiff old
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…
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…
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
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
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
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,