According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

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

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...

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…

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

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.

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

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 the field by force; the grass

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

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

O’€”eh’€”lee! La’€”la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…