My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…

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…

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

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

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

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

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

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.