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

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,

In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees

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...

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…

If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the

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

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.

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

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

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

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 the field by force; the grass