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 thefield by force; the grass

Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

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.

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

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…