#Americans #Modernism
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
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…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
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
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...
