#Americans
The night was faint and sheer; Immobile, road and dune. Then, for a moment, clear, A plane moved past the moon. O spirit cool and frail,
Reptilian green the wrinkled throa… Green as a bough of yew the beard; He bent his head, and so I smote; Then for a thought my vision clear… The head dropped clean; he rose an…
I, one who never speaks, Listened days in summer trees, Each day a rustling leaf. Then, in time, my unbelief Grew like my running—
God spoke once in the dark: dead s… in the dead silence. I turned in my sleep. I slept and sank away. Then breath by breath I rose
Europe: 1944 as regarded from a great distance Impersonal the aim Where giant movements tend; Each man appears the same;
This is the terminal: the light Gives perfect vision, false and ha… The metal glitters, deep and brigh… Great planes are waiting in the ya… They are already in the night.
Snake River Country I now remembered slowly how I cam… I, sometime living, sometime with… Creeping by iron ways across the b… Wastes of Wyoming, turning in des…
Now every leaf, though colorless,… With disembodied and celestial lig… And drops without a movement or a… A pillar of darkness to the shifti… The lucent, thin, and alcoholic fl…
The spring has darkened with activ… The future gathers in vine, bush,… Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, an… Degrees and kinds of color, taste,… These will advance in their due se…
Amid the iris and the rose, The honeysuckle and the bay, The wild earth for a moment goes In dust or weed another way. Small though its corner be, the we…
Far out of sight forever stands th… Bounding the land with pale tranqu… When a small child, I watched it… At thirty miles or more. The visi… Lies in the eye, soft blue and far…
The young are quick of speech. Grown middle-aged, I teach Corrosion and distrust, Exacting what I must. A poem is what stands
Where am I now? And what Am I to say portends? Death is but death, and not The most obtuse of ends. No matter how one leans
Dear Emily, my tears would burn y… But for the fire-dry line that mak… Burning my eyes, my fingers, while… Singly the words that crease my he… If I could make some tortured pil…
Who knows Where my sight goes, What your sight shows— Where the peachtree blows? The frogs sing