#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
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,
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
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...
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
