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

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

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

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

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

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

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

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

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

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