#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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.
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
