(1923)
#AmericanWriters
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
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The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
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,
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it: