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…

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

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

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

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

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

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 the field by force; the grass

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

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

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