The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

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

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

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

The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

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…

Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

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