#Americans #Modernism
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—
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
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…
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
