A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

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

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

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

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie