(1916)
#AmericanWriters
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
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...
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
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 little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
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…
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square