#Americans #Modernism
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
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.
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
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…
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
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
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
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...