CREATIVE SUITE

Never does any motion, sound, or light
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
In a single floral stroke,
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
Floating on the sky.
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Preface to the 1948 Edition
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Right, and appears from here to be overcome