White in the moonlight,
Wet with dew,
We have known the languor
Of being two.
We have been weary

Sitting on the top of the 'bus,
I bite my pipe and look at the sky
Over my shoulder the smoke streams
And my life with it.
“Conservation of energy,” you say.

There had been phantoms, pale-reme
Of this and this occasion, sisterl
In their resemblances, each effigy
Crowned with the same bright hair
White rounded firmness, and each b

The eyes of the portraits on the w
Look at me, follow me,
Stare incessantly:
I take it their glance means nothi
—Clearly, oh clearly! Nothing at

Day after day,
At spring’s return,
I watch my flowers, how they burn
Their lives away.
The candle crocus

At your mouth, white and milk-warm
I taste a strange apocalypse:
Your subtle taper finger-tips
Weave me new heavens, yet, methink
I know the wiles and each iynx

Shepherd, to yon tall poplars tune
Let them pierce, keenly, subtly sh
The slow blue rumour of the hill;
Let the grass cry with an anguish
And the great sky be mute.

Her eyes of bright unwinking glaze
All imperturbable do not
Even make pretences to regard
The justing absence of her stays,
Where many a Tyrian gallipot

My green aquarium of phantom fish,
Goggling in on me through the mist
My rotting leaves and fields spong
My few clear quiet autumn days—I
I could leave all, clearness and m

Failing sometimes to understand
Why there are folk whose flesh sho
Like carrion puffed with noisome s
Fly-blown to the eye that looks on
Fly-blown to the touch of a hand;