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

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,

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...

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

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

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

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

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

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