Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

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

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

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...

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

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

It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...

A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

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