Pour O pour that parting soul in… O pour it in the sawdust glow of n… Into the velvet pine-smoke air ton… And let the valley carry it along. And let the valley carry it along.

I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled. But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it. I have bee...

Stretch sea Stretch away sea and land We are following thee Thy lead is dangerous And glorius

whisper of yellow globes gleaming on lamp-posts that sway like bootleg licker drinkers in th… and let your breath be moist again… like bright beads on yellow globes

Hair-braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher’s rope, Eyes-fagots, Lips-old scars, or the first red b… Breath-the last sweet scent of can…

Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks. Seventh Street is a bastrad of Prohibition and the War. A crude-boned, soft-skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer...

The sky, lazily disdaining to purs… The setting sun, too indolent to h… A lengthened tournament for flashi… Passively darkens for night’s barb… A feast of moon and men and barkin…

A certain man wishes to be a princ… Of this earth; he also wants to be A saint and master of the being-wo… Conscience cannot exist in the fir… The second cannot exist without co…

Hair—braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher’s rope, Eyes—fagots, Lips—old scars, or the first red b… Breath—the last sweet scent of can…

Full moon rising on the waters of… Lakes and moon and fires, Cloine tires, Holding her lips apart. Promises of slumber leaving shore…