#AmericanWriters #Modernism
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
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…
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
