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 . . .

Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…

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

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.

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 have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which

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

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...

Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…