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...

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

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

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

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

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

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

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

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square