Poets make pets of pretty, docile… I love smooth words, like gold-ena… Which circle slowly with a silken… And tender ones, like downy-feathr… Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed d…

The headlights raced; the moon, de… Stared down on that golden river. I saw through the smoke the scarle… Of a boy who could not shiver. His father’s hand forced him to st…

Within my house of patterned horn I sleep in such a bed As men may keep before they’re bor… And after when they’re dead. Sticks and stones may break their…

You are a rose, but set with sharp… You are a pretty bird that pecks a… You are a little squirrel on a tre… Pelting me with the prickly fruit… A diamond, torn from a crystal min…

Allegra, rising from her canopied… Slides both white feet across the… Which lace the peacock jalousies:… An idol of fine clay, with feet of…

Let us walk in the white snow In a soundless space; With footsteps quiet snd slow, At a tranquil pace, Under veils of white lace.

I was always afraid of Somes’s Po… Not the little pond, by which the… Where laughing boys catch alewives… In brown, bright shallows; but the… There, where the frost makes all t…

The icicles wreathing On trees in festoon Swing, swayed to our breathing: They’re made of the moon. She’s a pale, waxen taper;

Lovers eminent in love Ever diversities combine; The vocal chords of the cushat-dov… The snake’s articulated spine. Such elective elements

My locks are shorn for sorrow Of love which may not be; Tomorrow and tomorrow Are plotting cruelty. The winter wind tangles

Hate in the world’s hand Can carve and set its seal Like the strong blast of sand Which cuts into steel. I have seen how the finger of hate

All that I dream By day or night Lives in that stream Of lovely light. Here is the earth,

The rain’s cold grains are silver-… Sharp as golden sands, A bell is clanging, people sway Hanging by their hands. Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff…

Say not of beauty she is good, Or aught but beautiful, Or sleek to doves’ wings of the wo… Her wild wings of a gull. Call her not wicked; that word’s t…

Beauty has a tarnished dress, And a patchwork cloak of cloth Dipped deep in mournfulness, Striped like a moth. Wet grass where it trails