I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

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

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

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

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

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 . . .

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

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

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…

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