The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

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

They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.

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

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

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.

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

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