#AmericanWriters #Modernism #FreeVerse
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
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…
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,
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
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!
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
