I will read ashes for you, if you… I will look on the fire and tell y… And out of the red and black tongu… I will tell how fire comes And how fire runs far as the sea.

Tall timber stood here once, hee o… Here the roots of a half-mile of t… Then the axemen came and the chips… Dynamite, wagons, and horses took… It would come hard now for this ha…

Bend low again, night of summer st… So near you are, sky of summer sta… So near, a long-arm man can pick o… Pick off what he wants in the sky… So near you are, summer stars,

I LOVE him, I love him, ran the… And she formed his name on her ton… And she sent him word she loved hi… So much, and death was nothing; wo… All was nothing if her love for hi…

WHEN the sea is everywhere from horizon to horizon .. when the salt and blue fill a circle of horizons .. I swear again how I know

HUNTINGTON sleeps in a house… Huntington dreams of railroads he… Huntington dreams of ten thousand… Blithery sleeps in a house six fee… Blithery dreams of rails and ties…

YOU have loved forty women, but y… You have led a hundred secret live… one thumb. You go round the world and fight i… win all the world’s honors, but wh…

‘The past is a bucket of ashes.’ THE WOMAN named To-morrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time and does her hair the way she want…

I WANDER down on Clinton stree… And listen to the voices of Itali… It is a cataract of coloratura And I could sleep to their musica…

THE SUMMER shirt sale of a downtown haberdasher is glorified in a show-window slang: everybody understands the language: red dots, yellow circles, blue anchors, and dove-brown hooks, th...

THE LAW says you and I belong t… The law says you are mine and I a… And there are a million miles of w… Between the chair where you sit an… The law says two strangers shall e…

YOUR bony head, Jazbo, O dock w… Those grappling hooks, those wheel… The dome and the wings of you, ***… The red roof and the door of you, I know where your songs came from.

WHY should I be wondering How you would look in black velvet… I who cannot remember whether it w… Or a whirr of red under your willo… Why do I wonder how you would loo…

NANCY HANKS dreams by the fir… Dreams, and the logs sputter, And the yellow tongues climb. Red lines lick their way in flicke… Oh, sputter, logs.

A STORM of white petals, Buds throwing open baby fists Into hands of broad flowers. Red roses running upward, Clambering to the clutches of life