Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derisi
outside my window:
Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am

The birches are mad with green poi
the wood’s edge is burning with th
burning, seething—No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leav
by one. Their delicate leaves unfo

These
are the desolate, dark weeks
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man.
The year plunges into night

Mr T.
bareheaded
in a soiled undershirt
his hair standing out
on all sides

Little round moon up there’—wait a
'—'—'—'—'—'—
It has always been the fashion to
This that I have struggled agains
'—'—'—'—'—'—

She sits with
tears on
her cheek
her cheek on
her hand

All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among

Constantly near you, I never in m
sixty-four years knew you so well
or half so well. We talked. you we
so lucid, so disengaged from all e
of place and time. We talked of ou

Light hearted William twirled
his November moustaches
and, half dressed, looked
from the bedroom window
upon the spring weather.

It is a willow when summer is over
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.