#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
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
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
