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

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

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

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

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

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…

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…

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

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…

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…

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

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

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

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.