Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion '€˜tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…