a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

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

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

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

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky

Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which