Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

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

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

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

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.

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely

When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,