ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…

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

The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

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...

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,

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…

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

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

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

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.

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