It can’t be the passing of time th… That white shadow across the water… Just offshore. I shiver a little, with the evenin… I turn down the steep path to find

Anghiari is medieval, a sleeve slo… A steep hill, suddenly sweeping ou… To the edge of a cliff, and dwindl… But far up the mountain, behind th… We too were swept out, out by the…

I had no idea the elf owl Crept into you in the secret Of night. I have torn myself out of many bit… In America, that seemed

The moon drops one or two feathers… The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now. There they are, the moon’s young,…

Lured by the wall, and drawn To stare below the roof, Where pigeons nest aloof From prowling cats and men, I count the sash and bar

When I went out to kill myself, I… A pack of hoodlums beating up a ma… Running to spare his suffering, I… My name, my number, how my day beg… How soldiers milled around the gar…

Dark cypresses— The world is uneasily happy; It will all be forgotten. —Theodore Storm Mother of roots, you have not seed…

The twilight falls; I soften the… And clean again. The house has lain and moldered fo… The windows smeared with rain, the… The mice come in,

Deep into spring, winter is hanging on. Bitter and skillful in his hopelessness, he stays alive in every shady place, starving along the Mediterranean: angry to see the glittering sea-p...

I will grieve alone, As I strolled alone, years ago, d… The Ohio shore. I hid in the hobo jungle weeds Upstream from the sewer main,

She cleaned house, and then lay do… On the long stair. On one of those cold white wings That the strange fowl provide for… That cautery of snow that blinds u…

Nightfall, that saw the morning-gl… Tendril and string against the cru… Nurses him now, his skeleton for g… His locks for comfort curled among… Shuttles of moonlight weave his sh…

Strange bird, His song remains secret. He worked too hard to read books. He never heard how Sherwood Ander… Got out of it, and fled to Chicag…

It is all right. All they do Is go in by dividing One rib from another. I wouldn’t Lie to you. It hurts Like nothing I know. All they do

From an epigram by Plato When I was a boy, a relative Asked for me a job At the Weeks Cemetery. Think of all I could