Two months after marching through Boston, half the regiment was dead; at the dedication, William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe. Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's ...

I've decided to waste my life again, Like I used to: get drunk on The light in the leaves, find a wall Against which something can happen, Whatever may have happened Long ago—let a bullet hole echoing ...

Autumn is desolation in the plot Of a thousand acres where these memories grow From the inexhaustible bodies that are not Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row. Think of the autumns that have ...