#Americans #Modernism
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
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.
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
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…
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…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
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…
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
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
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island