This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

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

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields

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

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,