NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

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

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

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…

Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

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

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…

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,