#Americans Modern
Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sound… On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel,
“Mother of heaven, regina of the c… O sceptre of the sun, crown of the… There is not nothing, no, no, neve… Like the clashed edges of two word… And so I mocked her in magnificen…
There is a great river this side o… Before one comes to the first blac… And trees that lack the intelligen… In that river, far this side of S… The mere flowing of the water is a…
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…
An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white,
A sunny day’s complete Poussinian… Divide it from itself. It is this… And it is not. By metaphor you paint A thing. Thus, the pineapple was…
The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the sn… It crawls under your eyelids And spreads its webs there—
The poem of the mind in the act of… What will suffice. It has not alw… To find: the scene was set; it rep… Was in the script. Then the theatre was changed
To sing jubilas at exact, accustom… To be crested and wear the mane of… And so, as part, to exult with its… To speak of joy and to sing of it,… The shoulders of joyous men, to fe…
At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outs… Seemed like a sound in his mind. He knew that he heard it, A bird’s cry at daylight or before…
On the threshold of heaven, the fi… Become the figures of heaven, the… Of men growing small in the distan… Singing, with smaller and still sm… Unintelligible absolution and an e…
The cock crows But no queen rises. The hair of my blonde Is dazzling, As the spittle of cows
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…
One’s grand flights, one’s Sunday… One’s tootings at the weddings of… Occur as they occur. So bluish cl… Occurred above the empty house and… Of the rhododendrons rattled their…
Poetry is the supreme fiction, mad… Take the moral law and make a nave… And from the nave build haunted he… The conscience is converted into p… Like windy citherns hankering for…