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

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

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

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

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

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

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…

When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

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…