#Americans #Modernism
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
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…
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,