Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

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

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...

Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…

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

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

When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,

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

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

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