#Americans #Modernism
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
