These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...

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

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…

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

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

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

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

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

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...