SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was

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

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 living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

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

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...

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

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