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

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

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

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

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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…

The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

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…