Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

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

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

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.

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream