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.

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

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow

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

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

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

This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with

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

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.

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.