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

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

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

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

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

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

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

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…