The chatter of little people Breaks on my purpose Like the water-drops which slowly… And while I laugh My spirit crumbles at their teasin…

I wandered through a house of many… It grew darker and darker, Until, at last, I could only find… By passing my fingers along the wa… Suddenly my hand shot through an o…

As I would free the white almond… So I would strip your trappings o… Beloved. And fingering the smooth and polis… I should see that in my hands glit…

Gushing from the mouths of stone m… To spread at ease under the sky In granite-lipped basins, Where iris dabble their feet And rustle to a passing wind,

A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a woman’s name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping throu...

Softly the water ripples Against the canoe’s curving side, Softly the birch trees rustle Flinging over us branches wide. Softly the moon glints and glisten…

The scent of hyacinths, like a pal… between me and my book; And the South Wind, washing throu… Makes the candles quiver. My nerves sting at a spatter of ra…

Oblong, its jutted ends rounding i… The old sunken basin lies with its… An inch below the terrace tiles. Over the stagnant water Slide reflections:

They brought me a quilled, yellow… Opulent, flaunting. Round gold Flung out of a pale green stalk. Round, ripe gold

How should I sing when buffeting… And stung with bitter surges, in w… I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadf… Marshals its undefeated dark and r… In brutal madness, reeling over gr…

Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey, windy sleet! Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red, festooning from the ceili...

You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my D… Can clocks tick back to yesterday… Can cracked and fallen leaves reca… And leap up on the boughs, now sti… For your sake, I would go and see…

When you, my Dear, are away, away… How wearily goes the creeping day. A year drags after morning, and ni… Starts another year of candle ligh… O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon…

I pray to be the tool which to you… Long use has shaped and moulded ti… Apt for your need, and, unconsider… You take it for its service. I de… To be forgotten in the woven stran…

The throats of the little red trum… And the clangour of brass beats ag… They bray and blare at the burning… Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, Trumpeted at the blue sky.