Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

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...

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…

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

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.

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…

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

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...

When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,

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