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The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

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

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

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

You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous