You can see the sandhills from our… Butterflies live in the sandhills and lizards and centipedes.

Cherry, cherry, glowing on the hearth, bright red cherry... When you try to pick up cherry Celia’s shriek

We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us

Come forth, you workers! Let the fires go cold’€” Let the iron spill out, out of the… Let the iron run wild Like a red bramble on the floors’€…

Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .

Where to-day would a dainty buyer Imbibe your scented juice, Pale ruin with a heart of fire; Drain your succulence with her lip… Grown sapless from much use…

Nasal intonations of light and clicking tongues... publicity of windows stoning me with pent-up cries... smells of abattoirs...

Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts… Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church...

—Albert Parsons went to his death singing Annie Laurie; didn’t another have a rose in his coat–

A spring wind on the Bowery, Blowing the fluff of night shelter… Off bedraggled garments, And agitating the gutters, that ej… Like lewd growths.

Wind, just arisen - (Off what cool mattress of marsh-m… In tented boughs leaf-drawn before… Or niche of cliff under the eagles… You of living things,

Last night I watched a star fall like a great… Till my ego expanding encompassed… Containing both as in a trembling…

Skyscrapers... remote, unpartisan.… Turning neither to the right nor l… Your imperturbable fronts.... Austerely greeting the sun With one chilly finger of stone...…

Aren’t there bigger things to talk… Than a window in Greenwich Villag… And hyacinths sprouting Like little puce poems out of a si… Some cosmic hearsay—

Cool, inaccessible air Is floating in velvety blackness s… But no breath stirs the heat Leaning its ponderous bulk upon th… And most on Hester street…