Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

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

Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…

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

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

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

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…

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,

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

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