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,

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

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

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…

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

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.

A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

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