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

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left

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

beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and

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

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

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

A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

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,

When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,

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.