Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass

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

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

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...

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

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

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows