#Americans
BLOSSOMS of babies Blinking their stories Come soft On the dusk and the babble; Little red gamblers,
THE working girls in the morning… long lines of them afoot amid the… and factories, thousands with litt… lunches wrapped in newspapers unde… Each morning as I move through th…
I WROTE a poem on the mist And a woman asked me what I meant… I had thought till then only of th… how pearl and gray of it mix and r… And change the drab shanties with…
DRAGOONS, I tell you the white… turn rust and go soon. Already mid September a line of b… over them. One sunset after another tracks th…
THE SHALE and water thrown tog… Then a potter’s hand on the wheel… Slimpsy, loose and ready to fall a… Dipped in glaze more fire plays on… Take it now; out of mud now here i…
The voice of the last cricket across the first frost is one kind of good-by. It is so thin a splinter of singin…
Pile the bodies high at Austerlit… Shovel them under and let me work— I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and V…
One was a white gull forming a half-mile arch from the pines toward Waukegan. One was a whistle in the little sandhills, a bird crying either to the sunset gone or the dusk come. One wa...
TOMB of a millionaire, A multi-millionaire, ladies and ge… Place of the dead where they spend… The usury of twenty-five thousand… For upkeep and flowers
JIMMY WIMBLETON listened a… Ditches along prairie roads of No… Filled the arch of night with youn… Infinite mathematical metronomic c… Rose and sang, rose in a choir of…
CRIMSON is the slow smolder of… Gray is the ash that stiffens and… (A great man I know is dead and w… coffin a gone flame I sit here in… and smoke and watch my thoughts co…
NOTHING else in this song-only… Nothing else here-only your drinki… The pier runs into the lake straig… I stand on the pier and sing how… It is not your eyes, your face, I…
Drum on your drums, batter on your… sob on the long cool winding saxop… Go to it, O jazzmen. Sling your knuckles on the bottoms… tin pans, let your trombones ooze,…
I was born in the morning of the w… So I know how morning looks morning in the valley wanting, morning on a mountain wanting. Morning looks like people look,
In western fields of corn and nort… They talk about me, a saloon with… The soft red lights, the long curv… The leather seats and dim corners, Tall brass spittoons, a nigger cut…