#AmericanWriters #Couplet #FreeVerse
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
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
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
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
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…