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

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

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

O’€”eh’€”lee! La’€”la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion '€˜tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity

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 worthy...

As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right

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...

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

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