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

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.

Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves

The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

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

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...

You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire