#Americans #Modernism
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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 back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
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
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color