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

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

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

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

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

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

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with

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