You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

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

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

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,

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

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

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

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.

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

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

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