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

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

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

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

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

The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…