The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

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

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

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!

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

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

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