Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…

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…

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

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

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

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

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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 thefield by force; the grass

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…