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

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

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

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

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

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with

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

An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…

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…

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

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

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…