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

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

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

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields

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

Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…

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

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

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

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which