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

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire