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are the desolate, dark weekswhen nature in its barrennessequals the stupidity of man.The year plunges into nightand the heart plungeslower than..

Each time it ringsI think it is forme but it isnot for me nor foranyone it merelyrings and weserve it bitterlytogether, they and I

It is cold. The white moonis up among her scattered stars--like the bare thighs ofthe Police Sergeant's wife--amongher five children . . .No answer...

I feel the caress of my own fingerson my own neck as I place my collarand think pityinglyof the kind women I have known.

Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen men--andthe baby hard to find a father for!What will the good Father in Heaven sayto the local judge if he do not..

You sullen pig of a manyou force me into the mudwith your stinking ash-cart!Brother!-if we were richwe'd stick our chests outand hold our heads..

School is over. It is too hotto walk at ease. At easein light frocks they walk the streetsto while the time away.They have grown tall. They holdpink..

The sky has given overits bitterness.Out of the dark changeall day longrain falls and fallsas if it would never end.Still the snow keepsits hold on..

II have discovered that most ofthe beauties of travel are due tothe strange hours we keep to see them:the domes of the Church ofthe Paulist Fathers..

A rumpled sheetOf brown paperAbout the lengthAnd apparent bulkOf a man wasRolling with theWind slowly overAnd over inThe street asA car drove..

The over-all picture is wintericy mountainsin the background the returnfrom the hunt it is toward eveningfrom the leftsturdy hunters lead intheir..

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!It is not a color.It is summer!It is the wind on a willow,the lap of waves, the shadowunder a bush, a bird, a..

I will teach you my townspeoplehow to perform a funeralfor you have it over a troopof artists-unless one should scour the world-you have the ground..

I've fond anticipation of a dayO'erfilled with pure diversion presently,For I must read a lady poesyThe while we glide by many a leafy bay,Hid deep..

Again I reply to the triple windsrunning chromatic fifths of derisionoutside my window:Play louder.You will not succeed. I ambound more to my..

Why do I write today?The beauty ofthe terrible facesof our nonentitesstirs me to it:colored womenday workers—old and experienced—returning home at..

Among the rainand lightsI saw the figure 5in goldon a redfiretruckmovingtenseunheededto gong clangssiren howlsand wheels rumblingthrough the dark..

In Breughel's great picture, The Kermess,the dancers go round, they go round andaround, the squeal and the blare and thetweedle of bagpipes, a bugle..

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses,Thou art my Lady.I have known the crisp, splintering leaf-tread with thee on before,White, slender through green..

Sorrow is my own yardwhere the new grassflames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold firethat closes round me this year.Thirtyfive yearsI..

Flowers through the windowlavender and yellowchanged by white curtains –Smell of cleanliness –Sunshine of late afternoon –On the glass traya glass..

It is a willow when summer is over,a willow by the riverfrom which no leaf has fallen norbitten by the sunturned orange or crimson.The leaves cling..

The little sparrowshop ingenuouslyabout the pavementquarrelingwith sharp voicesover those thingsthat interest them.But we who are wisershut ourselves..

Your thighs are appletreeswhose blossoms touch the sky.Which sky? The skywhere Watteau hung a lady'sslipper. Your kneesare a southern breeze -- ora..

The Archer is wake!The Swan is flying!Gold against blueAn Arrow is lying.There is hunting in heaven--Sleep safe till tomorrow.The Bears are..