#Americans #Modernism #Couplet #FreeVerse
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
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.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
