It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…

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…

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

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...

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.