First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

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 crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

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

A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

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

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

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

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…

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island