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

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

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—

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

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

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…

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

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

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.

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…

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses