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

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

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

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!

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

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

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.

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

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

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

A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

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