I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

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

Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…

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

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

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