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…

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—

As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

O’€”eh’€”lee! La’€”la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.