#Americans #Modernism
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
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.
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
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
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which