The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls

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.

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream

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

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

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

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 still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...

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.

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island