Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

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…

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie

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

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

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which

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

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…

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