I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

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

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing