the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

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

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

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.