DREAMS in the dusk, Only dreams closing the day And with the day’s close going bac… To the gray things, the dark thing… The far, deep things of dreamland.

GIVE me hunger, O you gods that sit and give The world its orders. Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure

The strong men keep coming on. They go down shot, hanged, sick, b… They live on, fighting, singing, l… The strong men... they keep coming… The strong mothers pulling them fr…

CLOSE-MOUTHED you sat five t… let out a whisper. Processions came by, marchers, ask… answered with grey eyes never blin… never talking.

She sits in the dust at the walls And makes cigars, Bending at the bench With fingers wage-anxious, Changing her sweat for the day’s p…

THIN sheets of blue smoke among white slabs … near the shingle mill … winter morning. Falling of a dry leaf might be heard … circular steel tears through a log. Slope of woodland … ...

AFTER the last red sunset glimme… Black on the line of a low hill ri… Formed into moving shadows, I saw A plowboy and two horses lined aga… Plowing in the dusk the last furro…

I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line. I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards. I carried apples from the Hood river last year a...

TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe. Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and ...

OUT of the fire Came a man sunken To less than cinders, A tea-cup of ashes or so. And I,

I REMEMBER once I ran after y… shirt of you in the wind. Once many days ago I drank a glas… the picture of you shivered and sl… stuff.

EMPTY battlefields keep their ph… Grass crawls over old gun wheels And a nodding Canada thistle flin… Into the summer’s southwest wind, Wrapping a root in the rust of a b…

THREE violins are trying their h… The piece is MacDowell’s Wild Ro… And the time of the wild rose And the leaves of the wild rose And the dew-shot eyes of the wild…

I SPOT the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins.

I SHALL foot it Down the roadway in the dusk, Where shapes of hunger wander And the fugitives of pain go by. I shall foot it