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

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

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 . . .

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

The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass

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

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.

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

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...

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...