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

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

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

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

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

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

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

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

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

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses