Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

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

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

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices