Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion '€˜tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity

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...

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

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

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

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

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

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…

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass