#Americans #Modernism
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!