I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…

A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

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

Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

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

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

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

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—