First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

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

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

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

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

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

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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

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

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken