From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields

"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

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…

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky