The murderer’s little daughter

so remote a thing. It is a fieldof the wild carrot takingthefield by force; the grassdoes not raise above it.Here is no question of whiteness,white as can be, with a purple moleat the center of each flower.Each flower is a hand’s spanof her whiteness. Whereverhis hand has lain there isa tiny purple blossom under his…

already cursed with offspring?We took you for rest to that oldYankee farm, — so lonelyand with so many field micein the long grass —and you return to usin this condition —!Oh, black Persian cat.

in light frocks they walk the streetsto while the time away.They have grown tall. They holdpink flames in their right hands.In white from head to foot,with sidelong, idle look–in yellow, floating stuff,black sash and stockings–touching their avid mouthswith pink sugar on a stick–like a carnation each holds in her hand–they mount the lonely street.

strong embankments, rattle and swish of spraydashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steadycar rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gustbroken by the wind; calculating wings set abovethe field of waves breaking.Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!Offal! Offal!…

me but it isnot for me nor foranyone it merelyrings and weserve it bitterlytogether, they and I

a red wheelbarrowglazed with rainwaterbeside the whitechickens.