ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

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

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

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

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

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

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

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