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…

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

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

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

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

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

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

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

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

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

THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—