First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

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

O’€”eh’€”lee! La’€”la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

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

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

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

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

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together

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

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.