Band concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers,...

ONE man killed another. The sayi… The killer wept over the dead. Th… Why is the sun a red ball in the s… Why is the moon a tumbling chimney…

I KNOW an ice handler who wears… pearl buttons the size of a dollar… And he lugs a hundred—pound hunk i… box, helps himself to cold ham and… Tells the bartender it’s hotter th…

CRIMSON is the slow smolder of… Gray is the ash that stiffens and… (A great man I know is dead and w… coffin a gone flame I sit here in… and smoke and watch my thoughts co…

I AM riding on a limited express,… of the nation. Hurtling across the prairie into b… go fifteen all-steel coaches holdi… (All the coaches shall be scrap an…

Now the stone house on the lake fr… workmen are beginning the fence. The palings are made of iron bars… can stab the life out of any man w… As a fence, it is a masterpiece, a…

IT is something to face the sun and know you are free. To hold your head in the shafts of daylight slanting the earth And know your heart has kept a promise and the blood runs clean: To...

RINGS of iron gray smoke; a woman’s steel face... looking... looking. Funnels of an ocean liner negotiating a fog night; pouring a taffy mass down the wind; layers of soot on the top de...

MEMORY of you is . . . a blue s… I cannot remember the name of it. Alongside a bold dripping poppy is… And they cover you.

I SPOT the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins.

SHE loves blood-red poppies for a… In a loose white gown she walks and a new child tugs at cords in h… Her head to the west at evening wh… A shudder of gladness runs in her…

Shine on, O moon of summer. Shine to the leaves of grass, cata… All silver under your rain to-nigh… An Italian boy is sending songs t… accordion.

On Forty-first Street near Eighth Avenue a frame house wobbles. If houses went on crutches this house would be

THE child’s wonder At the old moon Comes back nightly. She points her finger To the far silent yellow thing

THEY are crying salt tears Over the beautiful beloved body Of Inez Milholland, Because they are glad she lived, Because she loved open-armed,