These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

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

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

THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…

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

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

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…

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…

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

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

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge