American Culture · American Literature · Autobiographical · Biographical · Classic · Confessional · Diary · Excerpt · Journal · Modernism · Notebook · Passage · Quote

Sylvia Plath

Good-night, sweet princess. You are still on your own; be stoic; don’t panic; get through this hell to the generous sweet overflowing giving love of spring. — Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath. (Anchor; Unabridged edition October 17, 2000) Advertisements

Rate this:

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

Rate this:

Classic · Epic · Epic Poetry · Excerpt · Fiction · Fragment · Modernism · Passage · Poetry · Postmodernism · Russian Culture · Russian Literature

Vladimir Nabokov

I feel I understand Existence, or at least a minute part Of my existence, only through my art, In terms of combinational delight; And if my private universe scans right, So does the verse of galaxies divine Which I suspect is an iambic line. —Vladimir Nabokov, from “Canto Four,” Pale Fire: A Poem in Four… Continue reading Vladimir Nabokov

Rate this:

American Culture · American Literature · Americana · Classic · Colloquial Speech · Magazine · Modernism · Periodical · Poetry · Traditionalism

Robert Frost

Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue? Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)— Though some savants make earth include the sky; And blue so far above us comes so… Continue reading Robert Frost

Rate this:

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

Wallace Stevens

The Plain Sense of Things After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir. It is difficult even to choose the adjective For this blank cold, this sadness without cause. The great structure… Continue reading Wallace Stevens

Rate this: