From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

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

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

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

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

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

It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was

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…

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