(1923)
#AmericanWriters #Modernism
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
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.
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
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,…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
