Whenever I go there everything is… The stamps on the bandages the tit… Of the professors of water The portrait of Glare the reasons… The white mourning

Out of the dry days through the dusty leaves far across the valley those few notes never heard here before

When Hans Hofmann became a hedgeh… somewhere in a Germany that has vanished with its forests and hedg… Shakespeare would have been a youn… starting out in a country that was

The cold slope is standing in dark… But the south of the trees is dry… The heavy limbs climb into the moo… I came to watch these White plants older at night

My friend says I was not a good s… you understand I say yes I understand he says I did not go to see my parents very often you k…

Every year without knowing it I h… When the last fires will wave to m… And the silence will set out Tireless traveller Like the beam of a lightless star

Moored to the same ring: The hour, the darkness and I, Our compasses hooded like falcons. Now the memory of you comes aching… With a wash of broken bits which n…

While I think of them they are gr… after the distances they have foll… all the way to the end for the fir… tracing a memory they did not have until they set out to remember it

Naturally it is night. Under the overturned lute with its One string I am going my way Which has a strange sound. This way the dust, that way the du…

What is the head A. Ash What are the eyes A. The wells have fallen in and h… Inhabitants

Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with…

In the long evening of April thro… Bayle’s two sheep dogs sail down t… for the flock a moment before he a… a stub of a man rolling as he appr… smiling and smiling and his dogs a…

So gradual in those summers was th… of the age it seemed that the long… when the stars faded over the moun… leaving us even as the birds woke… glittered in the webs it appeared…

The friends have gone home far up… of that river into whose estuary the man from England sailed in his… in time to catch sight of the late… furring in black the remotest edge…

My friends without shields walk on… It is late the windows are breakin… My friends without shoes leave What they love Grief moves among them as a fire a…