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

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…

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields

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

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

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

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

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

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

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

Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...