They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…

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

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

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

Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of

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…

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,

a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

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...