A sunny day’s complete Poussinian… Divide it from itself. It is this… And it is not. By metaphor you paint A thing. Thus, the pineapple was…

Complacencies of the peignoir, and… Coffee and oranges in a sunny chai… And the green freedom of a cockato… Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice…

Among the more irritating minor id… Of Mr. Homburg during his visits… To Concord, at the edge of things… To think away the grass, the trees… Not to transform them into other t…

My candle burned alone in an immen… Beams of the huge night converged… Until the wind blew. The beams of the huge night Converged upon its image,

The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings,

It is true that the rivers went no… Tugging at banks, until they seeme… Bland belly-sounds in somnolent tr… That the air was heavy with the br… The breath of turgid summer, and

The time of year has grown indiffe… Mildew of summer and the deepening… Are both alike in the routine I k… I am too dumbly in my being pent. The wind attendant on the solstice…

After the leaves have fallen, we r… To a plain sense of things. It is… We had come to an end of the imagi… Inanimate in an inert savoir. It is difficult even to choose the…

An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white,

Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sound… On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel,

Napoleon shifted Restless in the old sarcophagus And murmured to a watchguard: “Who goes there?” “Twenty-one million men,

After the final no there comes a y… And on that yes the future world d… No was the night. Yes is this pre… If the rejected things, the things… Slid over the western cataract, ye…