While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

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

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

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

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

THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—

They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

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…

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...

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 . . .

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

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

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among