The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance...
our long way home.
I was always yours to have.

When I think about myself,
I almost laugh myself to death,
My life has been one great big jok
A dance that’s walked
A song that’s spoke,

We wear the mask that grins and li
It shades our cheeks and hides our
This debt we pay to human guile
With torn and bleeding hearts…
We smile and mouth the myriad subt

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils

There are similarities
I notice: that the hills
which the eyes make flat as a wall
together, open as I move
to let me through; become

Go to Tibet.
Ride a camel.
Read the Bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a Beard.

I thought it would last my time—
The sense that, beyond the town,
There would always be fields and f
Where the village louts could clim
Such trees as were not cut down;

We sit indoors and talk of the col
And every gust that gathers streng
Is a threat to the house. But the
We think of the tree. If it never
We’ll know, we say, that this was

To step over the low wall that div
Road from concrete walk above the
Brings sharply back something know
The miniature gaiety of seasides.
Everything crowds under the low ho

Happy ye leaves when as those lill
Which hold my life in their dead d
Shall handle you and hold in loves
Lyke captives trembling at the vic
And happy lines, on which with sta

WHAT guile is this, that those h
She doth attire under a net of gol
And with sly skill so cunningly th
That which is gold, or hair, may s
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.
Some declare their lives are lived

Abstraction is an old story with t
Granted no one but a humanist much
Then there is this wildness whereo
It should be of the pleasure of a
No tears in the writer, no tears i

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun

Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.

My man is Black Golden Amber Cha
Warm mouths of Brandy Fine
Cautious sunlight on a patterned r
Coughing laughter, rocked on a whi
Graceful turns on woolen stilts S

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn’t frighten me at all
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud

Let me tell you a little story
About Miss Edith Gee;
She lived in Clevedon Terrace
At number 83.
She’d a slight squint in her left

My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just astir
And whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son, our instru

Up, black, striped and demasked li
At a funeral mass, the skunk’s tai
Paraded the skunk. Night after ni
I expected her like a visitor.The
My desk light softened beyond the

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

Style is the answer to everything.
A fresh way to approach a dull or
To do a dull thing with style is p
To do a dangerous thing with style
Bullfighting can be an art

you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.
those odd ones, not

Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.

The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that
Some people wrap their lies around
And you sit wondering

Tightly-folded bud,
I have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,

If I were called in
To construct a religion
I should make use of water.
Going to church
Would entail a fording

Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse’s flowers will not last;
Nurses to the graves are gone,
And the prams go rolling on.
Whispering neighbours, left and ri

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hum
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there t
Here the clam deep in the speckled

I awakened to dryness and the fern
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled co
surrounded me with their uselessne

Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blo
The winter sun creeps by the snow
The stubborn season has made stand
My life is light, waiting for the
Like a feather on the back of my h

No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
It’s flying from somewhere

No speed of wind or water rushing
But you have speed far greater. Y
Back up a stream of radiance to th
And back through history up the st
And you were given this swiftness,

I had a dove, and the sweet dove d
And I have thought it died of gri
O what could it grieve for? Its f
With a silken thread of my own han
Sweet little red feet! Why would

What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without la
upon some shellacked and grinning
eyes that open, blue, steel, and c