(1923)
#AmericanWriters #Modernism
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
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…
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
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…
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
