I’m more proud of some of these than others.

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the dong of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three dongs.

III
The dong waggled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a dong
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of in-your-end-oes,
The dong thrusting
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the hand
Stroked it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable dong.

VII
O thick men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden dongs?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the dongs about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the dong is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the end
Of one of many dongs.

X
At the sight of dongs
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For dongs.

XII
The dong is rising.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The dong sat
In the cedar-limbs.