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A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
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
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...
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses