Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

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

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

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh 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…

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

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

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

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

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…

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

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.