#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
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—
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...
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…
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
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
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
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island