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

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

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

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

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

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…

Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,

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