She steps into the dark swamp where the long wait ends. The secret slippery package drops to the weeds. She leans her long neck and tongue…

Last night in the fields I lay down in the darkness to think about death, but instead I fell asleep,

The river Of my childhood, That tumbled Down a passage of rocks And cut-work ferns,

Did you too see it, drifting, all… Did you see it in the morning, ris… An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and li… into the bondage of its wings; a s…

Today again I am hardly myself. It happens over and over. It is heaven-sent. It flows through me like the blue wave.

“For example, what the trees do not only in lightning storms or the watery dark of a summer’s n… or under the white nets of winter but now, and now, and now—whenever

Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who make the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories,

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light,

Understand, I am always trying to… what the soul is, and where hidden, and what shape and so, last week,

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black b… Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean– the one who has flung herself out…

There is, all around us, this country of original fire. You know what I mean. The sky, after all, stops at nothi…

In winter all the singing is in the tops of the trees where the wind-bird with its white eyes

The first fish I ever caught would not lie down quiet in the pail but flailed and sucked

Is the soul solid, like iron? Or is it tender and breakable, lik… the wings of a moth in the beak of… Who has it, and who doesn’t? I keep looking around me.