#Americans #Modernism
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
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 the field by force; the grass
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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—
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
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…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
