#Americans Modern
he moon is the mother of pathos an… When, at the wearier end of Novem… Her old light moves along the bran… Feebly, slowly, depending upon the… When the body of Jesus hangs in a…
The house was quiet and the world… The reader became the book; and su… Was like the conscious being of th… The house was quiet and the world… The words were spoken as if there…
There were ghosts that returned to… As he sat there reading, aloud, th… They were those from the wildernes… There were those that returned to… Of the pans above the stove, the p…
After the final no there comes a y… And on that yes the future world d… No was the night. Yes is this pre… If the rejected things, the things… Slid over the western cataract, ye…
Her terrace was the sand And the palms and the twilight. She made of the motions of her wri… The grandiose gestures Of her thought.
The lilacs wither in the Carolina… Already the butterflies flutter ab… Already the new-born children inte… In the voices of mothers. Timeless mothers,
Day creeps down. The moon is cree… The sun is a corbeil of flowers th… Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho…Th… Of images. Days pass like papers… The bouquets come here in the pape…
Pour the unhappiness out From your too bitter heart, Which grieving will not sweeten. Poison grows in this dark. It is in the water of tears
Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are twenty men crossing twenty bri… Into twenty villages, Or one man
Weight him down, O side-stars, wi… the end. Seal him there. He looked in a gl… he lived in it. Now, he brings all that he saw int…
Complacencies of the peignoir, and… Coffee and oranges in a sunny chai… And the green freedom of a cockato… Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice…
After the leaves have fallen, we r… To a plain sense of things. It is… We had come to an end of the imagi… Inanimate in an inert savoir. It is difficult even to choose the…
The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings,
There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a… He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in t… It reminded him how he had needed
Light the first light of evening,… In which we rest and, for small re… The world imagined is the ultimate… This is, therefore, the intensest… It is in that thought that we coll…