Aloof as aged kings,
Bees over the gooseberry bushes,
Belovèd -- O adorable and false --
Bend low, blue sky,
Beyond the purple bay
Brown for the Autumn leaves,
By this same copse in spring I came,
Come, mad March!
Four walls enclose men, yet how calm they are!
From the pensive treachery of my cell
Give me the dance of your boughs, O tree,
He stood behind the counter, mixing drinks;
Heat urges secret odors from the grass.
Hope gnawed at my heart like a hungry rat,
I am afraid of the dark
I came to the mountains for beauty
I could serve in a good reign, but not now.
I had forgotten the gesture of branches
I made a slow lament for you, lost magic
I saw three wondrous things today --
I worship the greatest first --
If they were shadows walking to and fro
I'm as full of wisdom as a tree of leaves,
Infinite gentleness, infinite irony
In the dark the river spins,
Let the waves of slumber billow
Like a young pine
Like some inpatient lover
Long after there were none of them alive
Lovers of beauty laugh at this gray town,
Masters have wrought in prisons
Measure Me, Sky!
Memories, you can flick me and sting me
More lonesome than a lonesome ship at sea,
My bosom with the beat of wings is troubled as the day is falling;
My only love is a sailor lad,
My thoughts are like cobwebs;
Not because beauty is as thin and bright
Of late, on some light errand, I sat beside
Of what avail
Oncet in the Museum
Only a few hours!
Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
See him cut a whistle
Someday I shall go West,
Temper my spirit, oh Lord,
The grackles have come.
The mist is thick. On the wide river, the water-plants float smoothly.
The twilight gathers here like brooding thought,
The wind strikes down the pyramids of silence
There is no beauty surer than your own
There was a dreamer and he knew no jest,
There was a little fliv of a woman loved one man
These drinkers lie
This is no child that dances. This is flame.
Turn me to fagot, dusk,
We shall not shiver as we vainly try
When sometimes, on a moony night, I've passed
Wind trampling among the clouds
Wood piled on the fire
Why don't you go back to the sea, my dear?
You are April,
You would have scoffed if we had told you yesterday
Young rose that budded by Eurotas's stream