A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

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

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

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

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

Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:

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

A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which

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