#AmericanWriters #Modernism
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
Among of green stiff old
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
