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

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

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

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

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

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

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

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.

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

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

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go