When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

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

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

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

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

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…

Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…

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…

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

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—

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.