Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow under a bush, a bird, a bluebird, three herons, a dead hawk rotting on a pole-- Clear yellow! It is a piece of blue paper in the grass or a threecluster of green walnuts swaying, children playing croquet or one boy fishing, a man swinging his pink fists as he walks-- It is ladysthumb, forgetmenots in the ditch, moss under the flange of the carrail, the wavy lines in split rock, a great oaktree-- It is a disinclination to be five red petals or a rose, it is a cluster of birdsbreast flowers on a red stem six feet high, four open yellow petals above sepals curled backward into reverse spikes-- Tufts of purple grass spot the green meadow and clouds the sky. QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE Her body is not so white as anemony petals nor so smooth--nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness, white as can be, with a purple mole at the center of each flower. Each flower is a hand's span of her whiteness. Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blemish. Each part is a blossom under his touch to which the fibres of her being stem one by one, each to its end, until the whole field is a white desire, empty, a single stem, a cluster, flower by flower, a pious wish to whiteness gone over-- or nothing. GREAT MULLEN One leaves his leaves at home being a mullen and sends up a lighthouse to peer from: I will have my way, yellow--A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smaller as they grow more--Liar, liar, liar! You come from her! I can smell djer-kiss on your clothes. Ha, ha! you come to me, you--I am a point of dew on a grass-stem. Why are you sending heat down on me from your lantern--You are cowdung, a dead stick with the bark off. She is squirting on us both. She has had her hand on you!--Well?--She has defiled ME.--Your leaves are dull, thick and hairy.--Every hair on my body will hold you off from me. You are a dungcake, birdlime on a fencerail.-- I love you, straight, yellow finger of God pointing to--her! Liar, broken weed, duncake, you have-- I am a cricket waving his antenae and you are high, grey and straight. Ha! WAITING When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafrass leaves hang crowded before me in shoals on the heavy branches. When I reach my doorstep I am greeted by the happy shrieks of my children and my heart sinks. I am crushed.