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

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

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

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…

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

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…

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

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

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

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 . . .

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

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