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

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls

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

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with

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

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

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

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.

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

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

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the