THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

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

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

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

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

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

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

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

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

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—

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