If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

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

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.

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

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…

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

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

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…

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

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

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

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

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.