There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass

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...

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

My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

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

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…

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

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

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