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

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

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...

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…

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…

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

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

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

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields