#AmericanWriters #Modernism
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.
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
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—
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…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
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
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
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...
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
