Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

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

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

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

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

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…

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

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

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...

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

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

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on