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Paul Celan

Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you lay the table of love: a bed between summer and autumn. We drink what somebody brewed neither I nor you nor a third; we lap up some empty and last thing. We watch ourselves in the deep sea’s mirrors and… Continue reading Paul Celan

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Chicago Literary Renaissance · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry · Traditionalism

Carl Sandburg

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts. The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,       the mother of the year, the taker of seeds. The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things       come in the… Continue reading Carl Sandburg

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