Some thirty inches from my nose
The frontier of my Person goes,
And all the untilled air between
Is private pagus or demesne.
Stranger, unless with bedroom eyes

He was found by the Bureau of Sta
One against whom there was no offi
And all the reports on his conduct
That, in the modern sense of an ol
saint,

They wondered why the fruit had be
It taught them nothing new. They
But did not listen much when they
They knew exactly what to do outsi
They left. Immediately the memory

Ours yet not ours, being set apart
As a shrine to friendship,
Empty and silent most of the year,
This room awaits from you
What you alone, as visitor, can br

Chaucer, Langland, Douglas, Dunb
brother Anons, how on earth did yo
without anaesthetics or plumbing,
in daily peril from witches, warlo
lepers, The Holy Office, foreign

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:

The underground roads
Are, as the dead prefer them,
Always tortuous.
. . .
When he looked the cave in the eye

Clocks cannot tell our time of day
For what event to pray
Because we have no time, because
We have no time until
We know what time we fill,

Perfectly happy now, he looked at
An exile making watches glanced up
And went on working; where a hospi
A joiner touched his cap; an agent
Some of the trees he’d planted wer

Lady, weeping at the crossroads,
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhound
And the hawk on his glove?
Bribe the birds then on the branch