(1921)
#AmericanWriters
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
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
