A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.

Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.

It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

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

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

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

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

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,

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

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,