Blue through the window burns the… Heavy, through trees, blows the wa… Glistening, against the chill, gra… Wet, black branches are barred and… Sodden and spongy, the scarce-gree…

I have painted a picture of a ghos… Upon my kite, And hung it on a tree. Later, when I loose the string And let it fly,

Over the housetops, Above the rotating chimney-pots, I have seen a shiver of amethyst, And blue and cinnamon have flicker… A moment,

There once was a man whom the gods… And a disagreeable man was he. He loathed his neighbours, and his… And he cursed eternally. He damned the sun, and he damned t…

When I have baked white cakes And grated green almonds to spread… When I have picked the green crow… And piled them, cone-pointed, in a… When I have smoothed the seam of…

A Minstrel stands on a marble sta… Blown by the bright wind, debonair… Below lies the sea, a sapphire flo… Above on the terrace a turret door Frames a lady, listless and wan,

A great tall column spearing at th… With a little man on top. Goodnes… He looks a silly thing enough to s… What a strange fellow, like a sold… Tight-fitting coat with the tails…

What instinct forces man to journe… Urged by a longing blind but domin… Nothing he sees can hold him, noth… His never failing eagerness. The… Setting in splendour every night h…

How still it is! Sunshine itself… In quiet shafts of light through t… Which, arching, make a roof above… Changing from sun to shadow as eac… Lingers a moment, charmed by the s…

The fountain bent and straightened… In the night wind, Blowing like a flower. It gleamed and glittered, A tall white lily,

The lawyer, are you? Well! I ain’t got nothin’ to say… Nothin’! I told the perlice I hadn’t nothi… They know’d real well 'twas me.

Some men there are who find in nat… Their inspiration, hers the sympat… Which spurs them on to any great e… To them the fields and woods are c… And they hold dear communion with…

Near where I live there is a lake As blue as blue can be, winds make It dance as they go blowing by. I think it curtseys to the sky. It’s just a lake of lovely flowers

Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists.

Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard… Thou herald of rich Summer’s myri… The climbing sun with new recovere… Does warm thee into being, through… Of rich, brown earth he woos thee,…