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

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—

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.

This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

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

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

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…

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

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

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