#Americans #Modernism
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
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
