As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right

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

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

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

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

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

A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

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

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

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

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

You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

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