These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…

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

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

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

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