The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet

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

O’€”eh’€”lee! La’€”la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

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

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

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

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

The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me

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.

They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang