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

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

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.

The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

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

Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion '€˜tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity

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

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.

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely

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

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