WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

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…

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

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

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!

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

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…

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

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

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…

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

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

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.