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...

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields

They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

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

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for

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

Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses