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

THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—

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

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…

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

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…

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

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…

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…

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.

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

You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.