I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

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

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…

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...

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields

Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!

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

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses

This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,

I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…

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