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

Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…

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

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

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

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

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

Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…

ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…