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E. E. Cummings

kiss me a little: the air darkens and is alive – o live with me in the fewness of these colours; — E. E. Cummings, from “XLVIII,” ViVa. (Liveright; 2nd ed. Edition, October 17, 1997) Originally published 1931. Advertisements

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Imagism · Modernism · Poetry

Amy Lowel

The Garden by Moonlight A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight, Contented with perfume, Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies. Firefly lights open and vanish High as the tip buds of… Continue reading Amy Lowel

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American Literature · British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Epic Poetry · Excerpt · Imagism · Modernism · Nobel Prize in Literature (1948) · Passage · Poetry

T. S. Eliot

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world… Continue reading T. S. Eliot

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American Culture · American Literature · Americana · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Imagism · Modernism · Poetry

William Carlos Williams

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field the whole pageantry of the year was awake tingling near the edge of the sea concerned with itself sweating in the sun that melted the wings’ wax unsignificantly off the coast there was a… Continue reading William Carlos Williams

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American Literature · British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Fragment · Imagism · Modernism · Nobel Prize in Literature (1948) · Passage · Poetry

T. S. Eliot

In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin — T. S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets (Harcourt, 1943)

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