It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

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

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...

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,

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

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

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

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which