#Americans #Modernism
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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…
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square