Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

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

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

Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

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

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky

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…

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.

This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with