The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

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

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

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…

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.