Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

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

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass

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…

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

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

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

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

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

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

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…