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…

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

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

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

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

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…

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…