The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

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

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 thefield by force; the grass

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

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

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...

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

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

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

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

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow