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I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.