I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

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

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

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

My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…

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

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

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

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among