A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

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

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

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…

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

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

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

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