I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which

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 sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls

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

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

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…

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…

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

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