corps.txt

fishing boats
colors of
the rainbow

ash wednesday--
trying to remember 
my dream

snowy morn--
pouring another cup
of black coffee

shortest day
flames dance
in the oven

haze
half the horse hidden
behind the house

low sun
the lady in red
on high heels

advent
the passing stranger
farts

tarn
a bubble in
the ice

snowflakes
new asphalt
in the holes

Crystal Night'
   gusts of rain
      outside

rain
the sound of a horse galloping
through leaves

winter stars
suddenly a whiff
of perfume

hungry
half of the moon
hidden

rain
another leaf
down

sharia
the sound of one hand
clapping

the sound of geese
drowned by the sound of the train
this morning

autumn sun
my shadow over
tombstones

fly fishing;
the sound of the wind
in the reel

december
a long shadow
joins another

end of path
snowflakes melting
on the pond

morning frost
she leaves
first

evening walk
smell of tar between
pines

dachau
a blue sky above
the chimneys

Deep autumn;
The apple colder
In the tree.

visiting the graves
stronger the October wind
at my grandparents'

over the hedge
a dragonfly
east

a bubble
bursts on surface
full moon

rain
the white lilac
low

my hand
    on her hip
         full moon

three petals fall
from the purple coneflower...
almost summer

instant message--
moon reveals more
of herself each night

Out of the well
By the bucket 
I hunt A moon

nude beach
a stranger covers me
with his shadow

garden wedding --
under the cherry blossoms
the bride's blush deepens

rainy New York
from the tenth storey window
black umbrellas bloom

drunk on the beach-
the moon in my sake cup
disappears

faintly purple
against the moon -
pines in the light

the last light of day ~
purple rhododendrons
dissolve in the dark

wisteria -
blooming before
the end of rain

through lace ~
the tracery of frost
on glass

rain
falls from the trees
on the blue iris

winter beach -
three grey lines
of sand, sea and sky

winter -
white peonies
in falling snow

long illness –
pink dogwood blooming
without me

lunch al fresco
leaving out a chair
for the sun 

the attention
his dog gets -
homeless man

remembering a song
from my childhood
plum blossoms

father’s pills
the palette of
autumn leaves

end of summer
our memories
in zip files

waking up
with freckles & curls
summer break

long night
on my window—a spider
climbing the moon

train window
the fingerprints
from past journeys

old love letter
the crinkled edges
of poppy petals

his scent gone
from every room
winter jasmine

overnight snow
his side of the bed
untouched

forest trail
running to the end
of my thoughts

learning to eat
around bruises
winter apples

winter night 
extending my word 
on scrabble

thumbing through
an old rolodex
winter light

dandelion field
my voice dissipates
in the wind

trailing behind
the other hikers
taste of dust

summer break
the sun scatters
my freckles

summer’s end
in a jar of shells
the smell of salt air

early morning dew
squeezing the last drop
from my teabag

spring fever
tree roots cracking
the concrete

tourist season
the zen garden
fills up with noise

unknotting
the phone cord
mother’s day

glowing embers
I start my story
from the end

office window
comings and goings
of butterflies

beach stroll
dipping our feet
in the stars

all day rain
lowering the blinds
in her dollhouse

late night stroll
through parted curtains
lives of others

dusting off
the piano keys
autumn wind

autumn rain
puddles fill up
with moonlight

mountain cave --
from out of darkness
the morning light

after its first flight
the young gerfalcon's talons
tighter on my glove

winter roses
I am tired of reading
between the lines

storm--
the monologue
of every tree

candle snuffer--
our eyes adjust
to the smoke wisp

the patter and hiss 
of gentle raining
--cloudlight 

lull--
reading into the braille 
of your goose bumps

afternoon malaise--
slant light 
at the oranges bowl

first day of school--
the house fills with the space 
between second hand ticks

downpour--
the dead animal smell
shifts toward memory

dusk--
the last whistle of something
as I turn on a reading light

airport window--
the cloud of my breath
as your plane reaches the clouds

midnight moon--
afraid
to turn another page

in the no-name vine
bluebirds
at the red berries

fresh snow--
the new neighbors
with all the porch lights on

night shift--
a quick break
to look at the stars...

freeze warning--
light from the arc welder
brightens the night

freeze warning--
the need to pee
once we hit traffic

freeze warning--
just enough change
for coffee

freeze warning---
from the end of the bar
she looks back

freeze warning--
a couple of homeless guys
feeding seagulls

dust--
distant thunder
moves on

porn shop--
each cock
stares at her

scrabble dictionary--
lighting one candle
from another

rusting nail--
the coffinmaker
talks of price

labor day-
i dust of
my resume

that fart
prayer fans
all sermon long

thaw--
a winter moth struggles
against a spider thread

skylight-
a contrail crosses
her line of coke

antique store-
the ocean loud
in a seashell

dusk--
songbirds' voices
disappear too

indian summer-
rouging her cheeks
as she waits for a drink

evening service --
light beams
into the night

food channel --
between commercials,
dinner burns

autumn
along the highway
buzzards wait

evening shadows…
the things we deny
become more visible

rain puddle . . .
a refugee child stirs
the cold moon

wildflowers
in each clay pot
abandoned family garden

cold winter —
another patch
in the old blanket

withered peony
her love story
after menopause

women’s day —
nothing has changed
except her Facebook status

climatic change —
under heavy snow
the refugee camp

jury duty
the clock pendulum goes
back and forth

summer breeze--
someone practices drums
in the valley

no rain--
the sound of crunched
grass

museum--
so hot the mummy
sweats

summer rain--
drops descend the lily
leaf by leaf

hail storm
the golfers run
for cover

night sax. . .
dreams in
B flat

between
thunder and lightning
zero

I rescue
a mouse from the cat--
burnt steak

Memorial Day
an old couple rereads
the letter

Saturday night--
someone vomits beneath
the blossoms

evening rain—
buying cherry trees
online

mid April
the grass finally
looks like grass

noon sun--
someone playing scales
on a saxophone

shaving--
I share the mirror
with a spider

spring flies
buzz above my head--
E flat

starless sky—
dead batteries
in the flashlight

out of the fog—
a white barn with painted
butterflies

paint peels off
the old white house—
March thaw

same path
even in deep snow—
the blind horse

spring day
two hawks circle below
the contrails

spring rain
cars slowly leave
the cemetery

beautiful orange butterfly
lands on his shoulder~
oblivious

trembling
the hair ribbon falls
with inhibitions

sixty miles later
red leaves from my mum’s garden 
stuck to my windscreen

profound blue of night 
the resin and salt of pines
so far from the sea

scattered in the ditch 
like tiny scraps of blue sky
bits of plastic bag

japanese garden -
the pouring rain
on the stone buddha

spring sun -
the yellow house
just painted

leap year -
the old man's cane
also left its tracks

wild life -
a fly crosses
in front of the TV

traffic jam -
Moon passes through
the Earth's shadow

guest room -
the silence of the moon
at the window

sleepless night -
full moon has arrived
to other window

winter darkness -
last train runs
into the tunnel

winter day -
all those nude statues
in the park

winter blackout -
all the house
full of night

clear sky -
an old man sweeps
fallen leaves

tonight's quake -
trees without leaves
at sunshine

empty room -
the shadows of nails
on the walls

humid morning -
a bee floats
in the fountain

autumn flowers -
old men at the park
taking the sun

back to school -
the sun lights
the orange juice

distant hurricane -
in the middle of the rain
a phone rings

distant thunder -
a businessman talking 
on cell phone

spring rain -
between she and me
hundreds of drops

monday morning -
a white butterfly follows
the train line

after the quake
a leaf falls
on the patio

waiting for the bus
a street dog sniffs
my shadow

sound of the rain -
after a while
she calls my name

window pane -
at the end of my finger
the cold moon

spring break -
colorful tents
in the desert

long trip -
at the end of highway
the moon

cityscape -
the moon rises
from a chimney

waiting for the bus -
at the end of the street
sunset

warm winter day -
the smell of
a new book

factory wall -
the smell of
a new graffiti

half yellow moon -
workers talk about
tortillas

Valentine's day -
the heart balloon
don't enters the taxi

trash can -
flies
and shadows of flies

traffic jam -
women talk about men
in the radio

abandoned car -
accumulated leaves
on the windshield

sudden rain -
fallen candies
on the sidewalk

empty square -
no more
Christmas lights

new year light -
dust of one day
on the keyboard

cold rain -
thousands like me
going to work

monday dawn -
the silence
of traffic lights

first frost -
only two passengers
speak...

subway heat -
the breeze
of the arriving train 

traffic jam -
another star appears
in the sky

waiting for the bus -
my shadow
also changes postures

lightning at window -
the stopped train
in the storm

windless day -
a man whistling
on the street

traffic at night -
she talks about
cholesterol

night of stars -
moths circle
the street lamp

turn off the lights -
the night outside
and inside the room

autumn cleaning -
a desk drawer
full of dry pens

the taxi driver
tells me about his life -
autumn rain

pigeons on wires -
he tunes his guitar
beside a pole

night of stars -
a white ball floats
in the pool

cloudy day -
the horn
of a yellow cab

bus stop -
a woman's perfume
in the air

subway window -
she smiles at
my reflection

looking at her
childhood photos
my girlfriend older than me

morning sun -
the long shadows
of little stones

crescent moon -
she is cutting her nails
in the garden

night of stars
in the next room
my sick mother

new year's balloons -
the pregnant woman
staring at the mirror

cloudy sunset -
a lone traffic light
turns red

soccer championship
the winter moon
on the stadium

christmas lights
the silhouette of trees
in the dark

winterscape -
a traffic sign in the snow
points to no way

glass tower -
the moon is part
of the west facade

crowded bus
every passenger breathes
the same autumn

new yellow car
autumn leaves
on the windscreen

bus window -
she travels with the full moon
on her head

thicker dust
on a little Buddha -
early autumn

sidewalk cafe
on the empty seats
fallen leaves

dogs barking
perhaps I was a cat
in other life

scent of rain
in the open window
no mosquito

autumn wind
a line of red traffic lights
becomes sunset

subway window
she and her reflection
cry at the same time

20 million city
another street lamp
into the night

a line of traffic lights
change from red to green
summer full moon

apartment tower
a new letter
for the dead neighbor

washing my clothes
somebody looks at me
crescent moon

cloudy day
a penny shines
on the sidewalk

open window
the sound of rain
interrupts my dream

summer rain
another me walks home
under me

flea market
a still fly is part
of the old clock

with each sip
from the bottle
moonlight on my face

fallen leaves
some stars shine
in the sky

unemployed
but I'm writing haiku
about the rain

waiting room
stars appear
one by one

a line of ants
the empire state building
in the distance

pan-fried trout
I learn something new
about my father

long before I came
long after I leave
blossoming pear

falling star
another woman says
'me too'

winter solstice
the growing darkness
on death row

a hearse leaves
the prison compound
cold moon

summer heat
dragonflies escape from
the convict's pencil

Independence Day
watchtower guards
locked and loaded

the convict's debt
nearly paid in full
waning moon

wind chill
a few crows among
the homeless

year end
a convict's calendar
full of X's

visiting day
blue mascara on
a convict's wife

waning moon
a faux cease-fire
in Aleppo

Pearl Harbor Day
the Koi pond littered
with fallen leaves

the snake's dead skin
left in the driveway
Mustang Cobra

amid war
and rumors of war. . .
another grandchild

spring cleaning
long neglected baseball cards
see the light of day

long night
the waterfall's
icy silence

gale winds
the stone Buddha
remains centered

windstorm
the berry stains
on the path

pissing in a puddle
droplets of moonlight
on her sandal

indian summer
the neighbor's daughter sunbathes
beside their empty pool

chill night
new fallen pear blossoms
glow in the moonlight

fresh cut lawn
a dozen fireflies
inspect the job

mother’s day
he laces
her shoes

breakup —
my daughter's voice cracks
across two continents

just friends —
a taste of summer
in her kiss

fired—
at last i wake
on time

day of blossoms
a nurse erases
mother’s name 

mother's day
a nurse unties
the restraints

mother gone
moonlight shimmers
the last white rose

moving day —
the kids pack up
my first marriage

morphine drip
my father asks me
for more time

stonehenge—
scent of lemon
from the hotel soap

waiting the morning
the sun at the tip of the branches
of the maple tree

changing winds
bring up your kite
and the Dow

summer solstice
longer days
shorter writings

spring wind
scattering flowers of the magnolia
her nineteen years

bowing one's head
passing under the lilac
heavy with snow

last note
before she takes the bus
cold Winter morning

passing --
between the shadow of the maple
and the moon

last moon
before irradiation
Hiroshima 

fresh autumn breeze
or the advance of age?
forgotten tea...

moonless night
a cereus cactus opens
solstice blooms

sudden gust
carp leap from poles
to gulp the air

chill wind
beneath the monk's robe
a naked monk

screen of pine
white silence glides
on egret wings

sand through fingers
a tracery of palms
on midnight blue

silken winds
i am wrapped in quietness
of cottonwood seeds

back and forth
grinding ink slowly
the weight of my words

fogged window
a blend of green and gray -
hot tea with milk

morning fog
dissolving cypress -
sfumato

slice of moon
the scent of jasmine spills
into thick darkness

all day rain -
i add more flour 
to the kneaded dough. 

march snow...
the scent of lilacs
pressed in my book

windless night
a deeper silence
after the train

december night
now and then
the owl's soft voice

the lonely feeling
of dylan's harmonica
evening star

evening train
going the same way
as the sun

old roses
blooming again
september evening

cottonwood leaves
the quiet way
they soften the night 

insomnia
a light flickers
in the foothills

chinook wind
the softness of a day
in february

long day over
at last
alone with the wind

insomnia
a lone light 
on the mountainside

nightfall..
my thoughts linger awhile
on the old days

winter night
old trees
filled with stars

as if
summer had no end
wildflowers

all-day headache . . .
watching the moon rise
with the wind

winter pond
my stone ricochets
into the reeds

echoes
two owls somewhere
in the night

insomnia
the sound of a goose
lost in the night

the time it takes to learn
how to be silent
blue mountains

homesick
a hot wind rattles
the cottonwood leaves  

huddled cows
their steam thickens
the valley mist 

gaza
murdered children
my faded lilacs

alep bombings
at my bathroom window
the misted full moon

schedule screen
the spider spinned its web
between two tramways ---

in the greyness
the rosé bottle
of the homeless ---

subway station
ads as only light
the day after the bombs

leap year
looking a her twins
a squinting woman ---

less cars
in front of the brothels
valentine's day ---

on my smartphone
mount fuji in the sunset
morning coffee ---

after the bell
just the rain on the umbrellas
ashes to ashes 

for just a moment
the warmth of our tears
cold rain

morning run
observing me at the observatory
the fox

the evasive look
of a teen without make up
first buds

evening bus
this man in the reflection
is it me?

her cooled tea
in the middle of the table
first snow --- 

evening tram
her diamond on her nose
a star --- 

more piercing
in the autumn mist
the blackbird's song

asleep
a golden dot on her ear
bus forty one

emptied fountain
carried by the autumn wind
silt scent

the silence
of the april rain
after the shower

back to school --
still a bit of high tide
near sand dunes

around the moon
slowly, the haze
above the crickets

watching the moon
moving behind the oak
Summer wind

autumn freshness
nourishing a child
of eighty years old

saturday morning
under the japanese cherrytree
a pink puddle

the Big Dipper
moving on the water
spring rain

spring night
we're chatting peacefully
near the violets

ex-girlfriend
with a baby carriage
spring rain

tonight
a moorhen perturbing
the great bear

first snow
a loser teenager dead
from an overdose

new moon
nothing else on the lake
than the calls of the moorhens

low clouds --
listening to the snow
sleepless night

apple pie scents
my dead grandmother cooking
in a photo album

haïku
written in the underground
unreadable

friday evening
the silence of the office
on my keyboard

after the fireworks
he marvels
at the moon

5 o' clock am
behind the thick fog
fresh bread scents

in the rear-view mirror
the loving look of the mother
her reciting daughter

in the empty schoolyard
only plastic bags
are going the rounds

the smell of her hands
on the neck of the bottle
drinking greedily

a pen in a hand
she's counting the empty bottles
I'm counting her assets

opening the window
and smelling the white lilac
bloomed last night

late season
christmas lights illuminate
a golden buddha

a hint of blue, still
in the passing of these clouds
— sip of coffee

bedtime --
trying not to count
maimed solders

indian summer
the viagra stock
deflates

pregnant again . . .
the fluttering of moths
against the window

for a moment
the gull in the air
is very white

Fly,
be afraid!
No Buddhists in this house!

spring breeze--
between pages of an old book
a crushed rose

veteran's day
photo of the uncle
I never met

the cries
of homecoming geese
louder

pale overcast
the darker shadow
of returning geese 

my wife
home from hospital
hibiscus in full bloom

My 72nd winter
the deepening cold
in every room 

month-old obit
of an ex-girl friend
unexpected rain

back and forth
across our conversation
fireflies

death watch ended
the rain storm
begins

my wife
home from the hospital
hibiscus in full bloom

at opposite ends
of the reading room
ex-lovers

despite my assurances
my wife's makeup
thicker

somewhere
behind the old barn
end of the rainbow

thunderstorms
all day long
broken promises

hot chocolate
the scent stronger
this cold night

late night rain
the crickets finally
silent

nothing
in our bedroom
but moonlight 

sunset traffic
slowly down the hill
into darkness

at the crossroads
no wind to give
a direction

smalltown street
sunset and moonrise
at opposite ends

slow afternoon
the rain changes
to drizzle

home alone
the cold
of an autumn rain 

silent night
the fog thick
at every window

late night traffic
the swirl of leaves after
the last bus

while making love
the last icicle
falls

bad news from home
the cold morning
colder still

voices
in the cemetery
remembrance day

after the argument
the storm clouds also
break up

pouring rain
yet another question
without an answer

graveside sermon ended
the last leaves blown from
a nearby tree

63 today
nothing from here to the horizon
but fair weather clouds

start of a new season
a book loaned
to a new friend

right after
morning prayers
distant thunder

mountain storm
somewhere during its echo
the thunder ends

60 today
the full moon
still rising

somewhere
in the graveyard
birdsong

also
in the fog
the scent of autumn

cold dark night
the warmth of her hand
in mine

snow and rain mixed
my angry words
and her tears

death
of an old friend
my cup empty

behind the man
in the open doorway
nothing but darkness

the gap
between the mountains
filled with fog

grain silos
long shadows
on fresh snow

rusted wire
on a weatherworn post
wisps of gray fur 

backyard BBQ
at the end of his rope
a barking dog 

remembering summer
how brittle the leaves
underfoot

summer rain
the smell of earth
in the air

watching clouds
the white petals
of a crushed crocus

smells of spring
adrift in the morning air
bubbles under ice

after the rain
moon and stars
underfoot

70 mph
the infant snores
a bit slower

winter night
finding my pajama bottoms
on my wife

putting a cork
in last night's wine
late autumn

the glass jar
full of fireflies
bedtime

evening sky
counting some fireflies
more than once

smell of rain -
soft ridges of mint leaves
oil my fingers

blackbird song -
the name of a daughter
i'll never know

November fog;
not a tree
to be seen.

Purple loosestrife;
pale in the
lingering mist.

A cold morning;
the pink of tulips
through the mist.

Harvest moon
dancing with my husband
in the living room

a movement of deer
into twilight
suddenly spring

fireflies competing
with a full moon
summer solstice

the way grass parts
as the pheasant passes
spring's end

moonlessness--
so many ways
I want to touch you

earth day--
even the shadows at dusk
smell green

fading
right before my eyes
morning moon

light rain
on sweet, sweet clover
late summer's dusk

winter rain
the confusion in her voice
all over again

morning moon
filling up my window
autumn's end

summer's end
the tenderness
of light

after loving-making
scent of wild clover
through the window

after the dream
the scent of approaching rain
in the dusty air

park bench
she puts acorns
in his ears

supermarket
on a Sunday morning
Stairway to Heaven 

roadside
a strip of painkillers
empty

before the bridal party
unfashionably early
rain arrives 

a crack
in the pavement
yellow freesias

piece
of a butterfly wing –
autumn chill

a crow
on the wire
silent rain

old park bench
i touch our initials
each time i pass

new housing--
hammer and saw replace
the dove's coo

christmas services
a cellular phone rings out
handel's messiah

no island
in the bay today
morning fog

stop sign
thru the bullet holes
ghetto moon

desert garden
frosted lettuce leaves
in the pink dawn

iceman
last night's freeze on
the clothesline 

winter rain 
the sheets where she slept 
grow colder

giant moon. . .
the bark of a dog echos
over the fence

crystalline sky
the pioneers left no clue
which trail to take

willow scent
a kingfisher hangs
in the air

desert heat-
smiles along the narrow road
to the deep north

spring trek
a rusted snowplow
at roads' end

sweet basil
dried snail tracks crisscross
the window box

Arizona
road stop rest, the dog sniffs
yellow snow

a moth flutters
over the candle flame . . .
damned idiot

still water . . .
the undercurrent
in her voice

November winds
the dog finds dead birds
in the hedge

highway fog-
the honking of geese
homeward bound

desert wind-
iron and copper flavor
in my coffee

spring day-
the wall clock
still winter

appalachian spring-
carbide carbuncles
in the coal oil light

moon hare-
bloody gloves lay
on the ice

frosty dawn-
the dog watches me
pack my bag

campfire coffee. . .
condor wings glean
the first rays of sun

arctic air
soothes the desert heat . . .
blended whiskey

slate skys
chalk mark outlines
on the sidewalk

peach moon . . .
the thin slice left
for us

grassy moon
we slip off our shoes
to count the stars

garden embrace
the fresh smell of her
sun dried laundry

kitchen embrace
the smell of her hot
apple pie

farewell embrace
a faint essence
of mothballs

montana morning
the horses with their backs
to blowing snow

street light sway ~
dreams of her linger
with the storm

Sack of cheeries ~
clouds grow dark on the road
to the coast

salmon sunrise
a splash resounds over
the calm bay

farmer's market
she paints a flower
on a child's cheek

tandem bicycle
wind in our hair
a shared laugh

misty morning
echoes of blue jay cries
through the pines

fresh brewed coffee
cream and sugar swirls
she stirs in her thoughts

spring breeze
blowing dandelions
in circles

dry haystack
flames climb higher
against the night sky

rainy morning
the haijin stirs
sugar in his coffee

alabaster moon ~
glowing among bare pine tops
in cool mountain mist

kissing her slowly
where the rain
never falls

lyrid meteor shower—
a blooming apple tree
at dusk

scramble of house sparrows—
a conference call
with my sisters

negative test—
blooming narcissus
in the trash pile

alone
at day’s end
driftwood

catching up
after forty years—
dust devils

another birthday—
watching the long ash 
on the incense

blistering heat
a faint breeze moves
mountains

a magnifying glass
on the map of kyoto—
faraway so close

her blind date—
not enough spice
in the ratatouille 

before the rest 
of the world awakens
iris shoots

penumbra
around my shadow
hush of dusk

barbed wire around 
the abandoned orchard—
swollen buds

standing stock-still :
the deer
& me

afternoon tea
empty garden pots
fill with snow

scattering
wild aster seeds—
autumn rain

cold rain
i move my coffee
closer

california poppies--
the faint scent
of asphalt

no word
from an ill friend—
leaves falling

thunder moon—
long-awaited rainstorm rips 
through the arroyo 

thunderstorm—
clap of skateboards
in the park

neighbor’s clematis
on my side of the fence
free love

the roshi’s 
incense-smoked robe
weight of winter 

leaving the dust
of the world behind—
summer tea

ghost pines
under a crescent moon
summer drought

typos
in her apology
spring weeds

sparks when 
i take off my robe
winter drought

in the soup line
each man turned
toward the sun

candles flicker
through my eyelids
zazen

those shells
we collected for her—
high tide

deep wrinkles
in the face of an elder—
becoming dusk

after a lobotomy—
the pumpkin’s 
toothless grin

late summer
morning glories
hold the sky

slow steady rain
the muscles in my back
unknot

evening breeze
my neighbor’s bbq
drifts this way

high winds
a zillion elm seeds
looking for love

memorial day
another mattress sale
at the strip mall

released again
as the puddles dry—
apricot petals

garden ghost 
the blooming apple tree
on a starless night

amber alert 
the wind trails off
to a whisper 

winter wind
lily petals fall
around the vase

steam rising
through a band of light
winter tea 

intermittent rain—
looking through a box
of old letters

after harsh words
we pull our chairs
into the sun

family dispute
lily dust peppers
the table

she bows lower
than all the others—
temple bell

a night off 
the hooker plays with herself
in her sleep

rain shimmer
on fallen leaves—
leftover love

all one can see
in her shaky handwriting—
dark rain

on each pass by
she rearranges the cut flowers
frost warning 

late love
through dusty windows
a mellow light

fifty years
of letters & journals—
flash flood

summer night
somewhere a saxophone
on born to run 

vacant lot overgrown
with queen anne’s lace
and car parts

garden stones
pearled by wind and rain
indian summer

mountain thunder
the birds change
their tune

autumn chill—
replacing the battery
in my mouse

after the rainstorm
last drops from the roof
heighten the silence

at the top of the fence
morning glories
climbing air

thunderstorm
so longing
for you 

summer night love
whatever the neighbors
are cooking

storm watch—
scars i’ve learned
to love

headlights
in the dust storm
old friends

winter night
without the heat
of his company

all the typos
in her apology—
spring winds

leaving home
a curve carved off
the moon 

day settles down
to this world of dust
evening zazen

seeing where
that argument is headed—
spring dust storm 

a long winter—
bevel on the mirror
throws a rainbow

a dog’s bark
wavers in the wind
evening shadows

another year—
those crossed out names
in my address book

my neighbor’s
apricot tree is blooming
secondhand love

overcast
the first blooms
of apricot

homesick—
sundown just behind
the fence

spitting seeds
into a blue sky—
the old elm

forgetting to ask
for the seniors' rate-
falling leaves

just over the fence
a constellation of stars
and trucks

wildflowers
along my neighbor's wall
soften her voice

unexpected guest-
a thought came out
of nowhere

midnight--
loading thoughts 
onto a passing freight train

empty shells--
the ocean
in my coat pocket 

wild winter night-
a flute plays along
with the rain 

long exhale -
a steady rain
on the tin roof

summer heat--
the peppered scent
of nasturtiums

after rain--
amplified crickets
in the night

freight train --
those little stars
so far away

queue to vote---
scent of sausages
in the cold grey sky 

friday afternoon--
just the bees
in lavender

spring graffiti --
blossom all over
the warehouse wall

lemon tea
and lavender oil
the rain on repeat

open window--
lemon scented tea tree
in the rain

surfing waves
a tiny lizard 
on corrugated iron

my own pace --
tiny flower blooms
from a crack in concrete

fading light--
the last sunflowers
half price

in the skeleton
of an old house
a new spider's web

industrial skyline--
where the rain
makes rust

sharing stories--
in dad's old eyes
always the sea 

after midnight--
crickets
and a city train

stars in the river--
two boys
night fishing

sun on a dragonfly's wings--
when all else
vanishes

cloud cover--
just knowing
the moon is still there

mandarin--
a few segments
of sun

whale sighting--
all the smart phones
lined up on the deck

freight train night--
the restless
dreams 

cold night--
not one silver track
on the footpath

lullabies
of suburban
night trains

steady drizzle--
a rainbow fades
into the grey

above the oil refinery
moon sails
seaward

dark early--
sepia roses
under street lights

night rain--
never too old
for a lullaby

rainy afternoon--
hot pikelets
with butter and honey

rearview mirror--
pelicans with sunrise
on their wings

city peak hour -
happily lost
in sunset sky art

industrial decay--
the dripping rust
in heavy rain

night rain--
we jump in neon puddles
and breathe rosemary

freight train--
the night runs out
of breath

nighttime whoosh --
a city train
fades 

car park puddle--
i walk through
the sky

around the campfire
we wait
for the milky way

graffiti night--
all these stars
sprayed everywhere

city bound train--
a book and a suitcase
full of stars

autumn chill--
one little cricket
sings to the moon

cooler mornings--
the honey slows down
from the spoon

wild beaches
in winter time--
take me there

home alone--
sound of my fork
on the pasta bowl

alongside the train tracks--
secrets of orchids
under moonlight

stormy weather --
a clarinet
blues afternoon

trains approaching--
someone on a platform
reading to the moon

sipping her coffee slowly
she warms her hands 
on old memories

train whistle 
in the distance
another sleepless night

smell of rain
young deer run
across the field

white clouds
glide safely
over mine fields

winter solstice --
the Persian cat's half-
closed eyes

all I need are mountains
and a hedgehog -
autumn deepens

full moon
another baby cries
without batteries

autumn rain..
the last time to write
dear john again 

To the Finland Station --
they rush
to strike a deal for iPhones

cat's paws crawling
across a lake's surface
morning silence

Croton hedges 
with their faux fall foliage
South Florida in autumn

blood on barbed wire
a pale moon
reveals the crime

They share 
a bruised apple
moonlit feast for two

Harvest moon --
too much light
for field mice

summer rains gone
the river
finds its own channel

his name 
on the black granite wall
and we must ask, why ?

rumble of thunder
rouses dawn
late summer in Miami

ash covers his school desk
all the remains
8:17 am -- Hiroshima, local time

brush in hand
he carefully...
8:16, local time, Hiroshima

in a pile of rubble
faint peeps are heard
rats, of course

ebb tide's retreat
and I grow older
recessionals 

tang of salt spray
at a fishing pier
late summer

lighting the way
with a jar of fireflies
childhood's last summer 

in the evening coolness
of a verandah
hereyes reflect stars

after a long night
the singing of birds
at dawn

Gazing at the moon
on a still summer's evening
feast for mosquitoes

Clouds gather
in a darkening sky
a walk interrupted 

a careful sip
more of chickpea than coffee
his breakfast brew

croaking of frogs
just after dawn
summer memories

silk from a web
entangled in my hair
a homeless spider 

Before dawn
By the small pond
The sound of crickets

chamomile petals
swimming in rainwater
for her blonde highlights

Splat !
a windshield and a bug
find each other

polished granite
reflects my face off
my father's grave

cold rain
sharp as nails
late afternoon

El Hueso's dry bones
still wrapped in a uniform 
that he so disgraced.  

old, brittle, dry bones
found inside a uniform 
a past imperfect 

childhood's summer gift
that first dandelion
dancing on the wind

My tea gets colder
and the madeleine just sinks
memory betrays

a cooing is heard
from a small puff of feathers
another dawn

small green waves crashing
against a porcelain rim
morning tea tempest

in an old snapshot
his Irish smile still flashes
her slight, shy smile, too 

faces from the past
their memories in old photos
effaced by the flood

red poppies growing
between rows of white tombstones
as in remembrance

under a full moon
a homeless man gathers cans
urban harvest 

deep into the night
a dog's sharp bark
becomes gunfire

butterfly wings
so loud their flapping
in a temple's silence

sharp smell 
after a noon downpour
electric summer

rows of white markers
all at attention
Memorial Day

late morning breakfast
left uneaten
too much of spring

Just a small basket
filled with hidden treasures
she carries proudly

a yellowed clipping
falls out from her Bible
Emmett Till's obit

In front of bronze doors
they huddle against the cold
the newly homeless

early morning dew
on a bronze temple bell
just before ringing

clear lake enclosed
entirely within 
a bowl of miso

breakfast still rumbles
but no other guns are heard
Armistice morning.

he winds up his watch
so carefully that morning 
that will end the war

The bugler plays "Tap"
her face so serious
her parents, so proud

Ordinary morning
bluest of skies, crisp, clear air
until the shadows 

mid morning coffee
sipped from a chipped old mug
so comforting 

Rainbows reflected
in so many potholes
afternoon rainstorm

that spring day
the flowers have long faded
yet we remember

the mirror reflects
a face I know so well
dad's

a flagpole stands guard
before a flooded schoolhouse
as a river runs

perched on a guardrail
of a busy highway
an egret preens

Cracks on a sidewalk
lost among the grass and weeds
urban spring

Cracked head statue
of the Buddha; a reminder
everything passes.

one plus one = 3 
a happy couple expecting
their first child

Fountain pen ink spill
not contained by a blotter 
Mare Crisium

she cries silently
her sobs barely audible
and no one to hear

rivulets of red
running down her pale young face
she clutches a doll

he turns one last time
flashing his sailor's wry smile
that bright November. 

the War on Horror---
G.I.'s on hashish kill
Afghans for sport

I turn off the pumpkin lights---
a predawn
harvest moon

white roadside crosses
where the road's swale meets Nature
memento mori

harvest moon gleaners
pale faces, leaden eyes stare
at an empty field

glassy-eyed, gutted
catch of the day on shaved ice
at the fish market

neither white nor black
a yellow smog that won't lift
Alzheimer's pall

Full Corn Moon
time to gather the harvest
before leaves fall

charred goat bones
they say -- without conviction 
Somali nightmares

too hot for miso!
he pushes it aside
that August morning

wildflower bouquet
left on a country highway
the endless road

tea leaves carefully
saved, dried, and used again
hidden poverty

there's a pelican
-- in that ball of feathers, tar
or it is a gull?

full moon
the wind howls through our clothes
and the crushed grass

night drizzle
puddles fill with streetlights
instead of stars

mountain hike
lost among butterflies and
the scent of honey

closed window
a bee lies so stillamong
faded pollen

twin bed
wearing your flannel shirt
keeps me warm

back porch
laughter echoes
between claps of thunder

end of summer
strands of an abandoned kite
flutter in the wind

in the hospice
an out of tune piano helps
her sing without words

hand in hand
white petals blossom
as we pass

abandoned home
an old life laid to rest
among weeds and trees

humid morning
the scent of lilacs
fills each breath

icy pavement
unopened buds shrink and fall
from the trees 

blood moon
forced to become
a woman

light rain
lavender blossoming
in a sketchbook

rain puddle
a child’s gumboot
splashing stars

french cheesecake –
all our thoughts
coated in sugar

solstice night –
the insomnia
of bushfire

first light . . .
the bright scent
of tea leaves 

bathroom mirror
always a stranger 
in my place

campfire—
the autumn leaves
losing light 

white dawn...
the cherry-tree in bloom
before the sun

first day of the year
fresh snow
covers the old

petals of azalea
in my memory
something is lost

triple malt beer
a loud laugh
measures the night 

crescent moon --
the street magician's trick
finally revealed

drying laundry —
the faded colors
of twilight

cooking together--
a touch of cinnamon
on my lips

Late summer;
the greyness of dusk
without fireflies.

Herding sheep;
the prickly smell
of wet wool.

estuary dusk
the shadow of a net post
reaches the water

long afternoon…
the sky trickling
from a tide pool

twilight tide
the last glimmering
of oystercatchers

summer lilac
bent to the heat
of the railroad 

distant thunder 
a boy sets his coin
on the rail track

daybreak
the fox's breath thinning
in the frost hollow 

almond blossom
the stillness
after love

spring heat -
the imprint of grass
in her thighs

heat shimmer 
the first blooming
railroad flowers

railroad dusk - 
a needle amongst 
the ballast stones

endless stars...
the braille on the box
of sleeping pills

thinning moon
the clock set deeper
into autumn 

Central Park
the echo of her voice
in every direction 

north wind . . .
'I too was a hippie'
the cabbie says

faltering light ...
alone with the cry
of a loon

flood of moonlight ...
the drip, drip, drip
of her lingerie 

winter raindrops
along a strand of barbed wire --
visiting day 

in and out
of the confessional
winter light

motel night
alone with the moans
of winter wind

'I used to be ...'
at the corners of his mouth
saliva stains

the flicker
of a vigil candle
year's end

street corner at dusk ...
a middle-aged man wrapped
in last week's news

wolf moon
a stranger's smell
on her body

breakup kiss ...
the line between sky
and winter sea

french kissing
on the bridge with love locks
two pink-haired girls

starless night
a lantern boat sailing
out to sea

kites tangle
in summer twilight
father and son

the clattering
of mahjong tiles ...
summer rain

the end
of a chalk rainbow --
foreclosure sign

downsizing ...
a winter star and I
in the puddle 

slanted sunlight
in the Meditation Hall
a drift of dust 

cherry blossom rain
laughter
chasing laughter

moonlit pond ...
a frog jumps
from star to star

sourdough smell of age
the cold rain pattering
against motel windows

blood-red earth
pattering on his coffin
winter rain

long way home ...
windshield wipers clear
the silence between us

the space
between etched names...
war cenotaph

pinned butterfly ...
needle marks
on the girl’s left arm

"Now Hiring"
flaps in the winter wind ...
last rays of sunlight

faraway whistle
of the night train . . .
mother's lullaby

the meaty grin
of her red-lipped mouth
my divorce lawyer 

snowy dawn ...
bits of yesterday
cling to today

a dried lotus leaf
in Tibetan Book of the Dead...
winter dusk

the darkness
between winter stars ...
relapse

Goodwill Window Sale
homeless man's reflection
and mine

the rail tracks
toward a harvest moon
thoughts of home

among mourners
this cloak of silence
between crows

her laugh echoes
through the empty house
the sound of snow

breezy morning
the scent of steamed buns
ends meditation

filling the hour
between news of war
snowflakes

writing haiku ...
my wine glass fills
with sunlight

"I'm married" ...
ice cubes shifting
in her wine glass 

mist trailing
over the autumn fields . . .
a raven's cry

yellow ball of yarn
in my mother’s hand
harvest moon

one year gone
on her side of the bed
winter moonlight

a paper cut
from her dear john letter
Friday the 13th 

blind date
her face half revealed
in moonlight

noonday heat
a white man staring at me
me staring back

rose branches
weighed down with snow ...
hospice garden 

another new grave
in winter mist
war cemetery

forget-me-nots
along the border fence
refugee children 

Rated R --
the orgasm
of sudden rain

distant gunshots ... 
sunflower petals
fold into night

midnight moon...
one long howl
and then no more

"dust to dust . . . "
the widow's shadow
on the coffin 

the stare
of a newborn ...
starry night

the click
of her red high heels ...
divorce court

her short life
packed in an urn
smell of winter

drifts of fog ...
first job interview
in one year

summer storm
the windscreen wipers
slice our silence

fireworks show
the migrant speaks of the home
he left behind

a latch clicks
on the vacant house ...
winter solstice

first day of spring
the lingering scent
of rare books

faint pencil marks
on the wall --
her dead child's room

the smell
of summer heat ...
roadkill 

foreclosure sign
in its shadow
a dollhouse

one by one
frogs make holes in the pond ...
starry night

a butterfly
tattooed on her buttock
summer heat

a new moon --
mother's letter heavy
with voices from the past

alone by candlelight
thinking of that spring we met
and another spring…

spicy chicken …
this impulse to ask
if she's married

church graveyard
a cloud of crows hover
over stone angels

photoshopping
my wedding pictures
winter solstice

after-party
we blow out candles
to hear the stars

her hips
sway our debate on sex
summer heat

the cold moon... 
I recycle a dream
from my youth

night deepening
the office secretary adjusts
her low-cut top

divorce talk
each sip of tea more bitter
than the last

prairie...
between heaven and earth
an eagle

a fork in the trail
the wind takes
our old map 

her nose print
on the hospice window ..
a patch of sunlight

snow on snow …
the depth of night
in this attic

Gaza at twilight… 
crying old tears
at a new funeral

a crow’s cry ...
the winter sky darkens
into the prairie

a long line of cars
behind the hearse
migrating snow geese

between cries
of neighbor's baby
symphony no. 9

traveling
far away in thought ...
hospice window

harvest moon rising ...
a tremble
in the migrant's voice

therapy session:
winter rain on the window
deepens the silence

a white butterfly
flitting through the stillness ...
church grave yard 

distant sirens
over the border bridge
a blood moon

a pigtailed girl
outside the cancer center
morning glories 

her face
in my whiisky
the moon floats

one by one
fireflies escape my glass jar...
starry night

the rice song
mother sang to me ...
first spring rain

first glimpse
of her mastectomy bra
winter rose

hospice verandah ... 
a girl opens her mouth
to spring rain

surge of the wind ...
talk of war fading
into silence 

first kiss --
behind the bookshelf
her scent lingers

blind date
cobra tattoo rising
from her cleavage

summer's end
my footprints in the sand
a little deeper

twilight moon --
a hole in the chestnut
fills with stars

her black hair
veils our praying hands ...
hospice church at dusk

offshoring jobs...
the last glow of sunset
at the horizon

Brittle scent
of a summer storm
lightning's sillage

sound of a moth
trapped in a paper lantern
summer rain

oh blue-haired girl
your stockings and Docs make me
a little older

frozen again
under soft spring snow
concrete cracks

climbing
the way her work heels
hang off the steps 

cold autumn wind
in all the cracks
eyes of barn cats

Urologist’s office-
the framed photograph
of the falls

the clatter
of machines
third shift

abandoned farmhouse-
autumn twilight darkest
in the empty windows

off the trail,
on the trail,
grasshopper...

farm auction-
fields filled with goldenrods
and asters 

spring frost --
the park cannon aimed
at the church

sunny day
a wasp tastes
everyone's beer

withered roses-- 
a bald woman waits 
for the taxi

dusk--
the mason jar filled
with fireflies

crashing waves-
my thoughts move
with the tide

house for sale
the apricot tree in bloom
as never before

northern lights
steam rises
from the coffee cup

cut into his arm
a line for each day between
Christmas and New Year

looking for something
in the bottom of a cup
the low autumn sun

a granita before
the afternoon shift
short shadows

two moons
somewhere between ports
she tells him it's over

lengthening shadows
things best said
in a letter

piercing stones
all along the promenade
cicadas and ringtones

too hot to shop
wasps drinking from
a town fountain

our parting kiss
a mixture of salt
and sweet peppers

October rain 
all through the night 
my kidney stone

the soldier looks
back over his shoulder
autumn grass

half-way home
a pint of stout
to keep out the cold

in from the cold
just one sugar cube more
in my coffee

drawn in by the smell
of fast food and vinegar
this october sun 

first juice
a lone wasp explores
the apple press

first buttercup
three lines of coke
on the kitchen table

chrysanthamums
the homeless girl pulls
her baby closer

tube ride
someone else's iPod
is playing our tune

 too hot to sleep
i search for my son's footprint
in the front drive

working late
the sound of a small brown moth
in the lampshade

hedgerow birds
three boys share a spliff
by the school gate

sunshine and snow
the boys in the reserves
watch the letterbox

needle exchange
sharing a breakfast drink
in Museum Square

mayflowers
three small boys track down
terrorists

boy's bedroom
a blackbird's nest
found deep in the lilac

teeth in a glass
the nurse takes away his pot
of blue hyacinths

chilled by spring winds
schoolgirls sniffing body spray
behind the gym

a lost child
in a ward of iron lungs
her daffodils

almost home
the full moon between
two houses

afternoon tea --
the old climbing rose
somehow whiter

Eucharist
pious women still weeping
for Jesus 

winter wonderland
even the burnt out car
looks beautiful

almost Christmas ~
thinking how best to reveal
that dad beats mum

circle time
she describes her mother
finding a vein

sun rising
suddenly the sumac
bursts into flame

the moon
not quite full
but full enough

Wedding Day -
in the bride's eyes
the groom's smile

imagine
a field of dandelion fluffs
before the wind 

midnight rain?
now every minute
the grass, greening

the cold cry
of a magpie?
first light of day

winter driving
almost blinded
by a sun-dog

sun's rise
the voices of crows
lift it higher

Canada Day
this country and I
aging together

ocean playground
the way memories come and go
with the tide

endless winter
more soft snow as we await
a new grandchild

under snow
the same earth
waiting waiting

tulips buried - 
the soft silence
of April snow

from Hiroshima
to Sendai . . .
so much just gone

snowstorm
too many flakes
for haiku

lengthening days
I turn the Christmas lights
off

perseid shower
the intake of her breath...
another contraction

my grandfather's sword...
the impenetrable silence
of falling snow

dull afternoon...
even the fresh snow
is tinted grey

late winter snow
a distant train whistle
cuts through my silence

raindrops plop
into my coffee cup
summer rain 

cold May moon...
the long road stretches
out of sight 

overcast night
maybe the stars burn brightly
over Gaza

chatter of joggers . . .
the heron and I
motionless

breathing deeply . . .
that smell of woodyards
in the rain

new snow
I almost forget
our quarrel

the stone bullfrog
under the bird feeder
just sits

my pregnant daughter
watches
the stone bullfrog

high tide
yesterday's footprints
gone

customs' declaration -
only the memory
of eucalyptus

customs' declaration -
determining the value
of new haiku

bonfire's glow
my niece cups her hands
around a firefly

Awake 
Smell of rain 
two new haiga

sound of the rain -
penetrating my sleep
at dawn

police watch the crowds
at children's carnival
the horse's teeth

door slam
the rumble of thunder
louder

hurricane warning
the wildflowers
without butterflies

 drowned
in the sound of the rain
other familiar sounds

first date
not even noticing
the new moon

coffee cold
she clips the obituary
from many papers

ancient stone circle
the flow
of a robin's song

her skin
pale in the moonlight
ebb tide

behind net curtains
her face glides from window
to window

in the attic
the sound of march rain
so much louder

hot day--
the cool inside
an apple

her small fingers
tightly grip the pencil
--writing her new name

house for sale--
the dandelions allowed
to bloom

heat lightning
the weight 
of a sparrow

dry spell -- 
dead-heading 
wild roses 

insomnia
the rat trap
snapping shut 

commuter traffic
cow's breath through
the cattle truck slats

coastal fort
a spider catches
the breeze 

dry stone wall
hill mist fills
every gap

thunderstorm
the smell of a moor
embracing the rain

border crossing
the swallows feed
on both sides

calling to
street sparrows
a caged bird

spring mist
the magpie
monochrome

mountain mist
leaving a snowball
on top of the cairn

pensioners walk
the slow drip of rain
from the thatch

sheets of rain
the night has no answer
for a bleating lamb

lengthening days
turquoise deepens
on a starling's breast

empty house
painting over
the growth mark wall

Indian summer
the sweeping can wait
for another day

roman road
I carry the dust
further north

making love
passionately all night 
the sounds of traffic

seed catalogues
in the mail daily--
morning snow fluries

Sunday best
his overalls
washed and ironed

conformation
the steady drip...drip...drip...drip...
of maple sap 

the wolf howl lingers
fades into the night's
eerie silence

winter temptation--
in the seed catalogues
perfect tomatoes

Minnesota cold
even motorcycles
hibernate

invasive species
my barber points out
my first white hairs

Zen garden
after each storm
a clean slate

cheap motel
the desk clerk
turns a blind eye

cold night
the hallway nightlight
flickers on and off

heavy rain--
the rotten boat 
tries to float again

heavy rain--
in the farm belt
barbershops fill up

desert landscape
rain will come and the water...
remembers each path

heavy rain--
the old rubber boots
not tall enough

heavy rain--
my flower seeds sprout
in the neighbor's yard

small town café
only strangers
get menus

storm warning...
a street corner argument
turns many heads

spring
a few blocks closer
than yesterday

first day of spring
stubborn icicles 
still hang on

early frost
they postpone
their wedding

evening voices
the window curtains
flutter

winter solstice--
her passing
bends the candle's flame

lakeside
the fog makes the loon's call
much more haunting

river road
he stops to buy
a can of worms

the moose grunts.again.
the nylon tent walls
seem thinner

steady rain~~
she rants about her boss
all through supper

first frost warning -
she no longer
pours his coffee

afternoon card parties
the rumor mill's
farm system 

recycling--
old stories get a new twist
at the rumor mill

city hall scandal
the town's rumor mill
adds a third shift

mid April
even in the shadows
the ice melts

avalanche warnings -
more tails of rain
and radiation 

winter returns
one stubborn maple still drips
ever.so.slowly

head cold -
running out of tissue
before noon

patience.
on the dock he sits beside
a can of worms

early storm warning
he sends the kids
to the neighbors

thin ice
he critiques her gravy
in front of the guest

a hint of autumn 
that slight pause before she plucks
her first gray hair

sweltering heat
the cicadas buzz louder
during her hot flash 

right turn
the clink of church keys
at the tea party

fall migration
custom combiners harvest
their way north

mid February
the first garden seeds display
at the hardware store

early sign of spring
snow shovels become
half-priced sale items

dark days of winter
the dentist explains his
payment plans

new age Luddite
he buys a dozen
paperback books 

dark days of winter 
the flat screen Christmas Yule Log
burns bright in HD 

dark days of winter
another mailbox loses
to the snowplow

dark days of winter
at my office window
I watch the sunrise

portage trail
voyageurs walked where I walk
ancient granite

opening fishing
fancy lures 
catch branches too

small town -
the welcome wagon
slowly rusts away

thick river ice
his message in a bottle
hasn't moved an inch

early march snowstorm
his kite hangs from the ceiling
gathers dust

Presidents' weekend
all that dirty laundry
sorted by mothers

desert highway
in the rear view mirror
blue flashing lights

lonesome train whistle. . . 
suddenly grandpa's mind
becomes sharp again 

giant moon.
all neighborhoods share
the same yard light

young lake ice sings
a tune more ancient
than footprints

crossroads ~~
each "O" in stop
has bullet holes

deep April snow
robins fight over
dried up crab apples 

Spring rain-
after "Dear Ed"
the paper still blank

tornado alley
the debris includes
foreclosure signs

old mill town
each company house
a carbon copy

long winter night
after chapter six
the tea is cold

first cold snap
all the quilts
still at the cleaners

Christmas morning
grandpa explains that yo-yos
don't need batteries

moonless night-
out on the island someone
lays on the horn

ebb tide-
they suddenly have
cold feet

false hope
a film of oil carries
bent rainbows downstream

drip.drip.drip.drip.drip.
the anticipation
of maple syrup

new March snow
the grouse with a missing toe
still around

quick mid-winter thaw
each icicle drips
at its own pace

solo trip
in the campfire smoke
old memories

morning fog
the bluebird's call
clearly audible

night shift--
in the parking lot car lights
dim near morning

rabbit trail
nothing but ears
above the snow

lingering cold...
the last jar of maple syrup
on the cupboard shelf

a dry new year
december snowman begins
to show his age

august wind
on the dock seagulls
stand on two legs

georgia peach
sweet cream and wrinkle remover
in the shopping cart

road closed
moose tracks continue on
local traffic only

strong winter wind
bits of Batman kite wings
fall from the tree

in the orchard
rotten apples now crunchy
winter solstice

strong wind
back and forth on lake ice
streetlight reflections

homework --
after the school bus passes
a spider rebuilds

sultry afternoon
only the mailbox shadow
crosses the dirt road

black hole
near beaver dam a whirlpool spins
autumn leaves vanish

long journey back home --
a forgotten bale of hay
slowly rots away

strong April wind
the smell of Iowa hogs
in Minnesota

afternoon escape
within the prison walls
a library

Christmas dinner
grandma's fruit cake attracts
only blue jays

Afternoon rain;
Scents rise
From the garden.

A spring morning;
The pond's surface blurred
By raindrops.

night of snow -
a log settles deeper
into the embers

winter solitude;
steam rising
from my sake cup

early winter -
yellow windows
in the blue dawn

loneliness; 
the trail of a raindrop
down the pane

in the treetops
lingering,
remains of the day

autumn evening -
the silence
of ripe pears

another birthday
under the same
October moon

unknotting 
the hammock ropes;
the scent of burnt leaves

the spider hanging in its web
doesn't care
the world is upside down

windy day;
the first flurry
of leaves 

after the storm,
floating -
the tranquil moon

her name on the marble;
birth and death,
the space between

lonely evening;
thunder
rattles the windows 

taking a breather;
the rustle 
of poplar leaves

pale moon -
the sun-bleached bones
of a sparrow

stepping out
for another log -
ah, the stars!

midwinter -
rain blurs the other side
of the valley

day long rain -
my breath
fogs the window

sake clear
to the bottom of my cup -
winter stars

midwinter slush;
the gray breast
of a chipping sparrow 

cold rain -
the bus pulls back
onto the highway 

early snow -
one more winter
for that old horse

cold night -
stars so near
we speak in whispers

stone Jesus
with outstretched arms -
the falling snow

starry night -
out on the highway
a truck changes gears

day-long rain;
I organize
my watercolors

autumn woods -
the smell
of last night's rain

abandoned by geese
heading south -
my autumn birthday

late summer -
copper wishes collect
in the bottom of the well

sultry day -
the tumult of rain
on my umbrella

a hole in the meadow -
lowering
the farmer's body 

lone guest gone –
the ticking 
of the parlor clock

in the darkening yard,
the sun strikes 
the cockscomb’s red

between the treetops
and bright stars –
puffs of white clouds drift

late night
with Ryokan –
I warm the rice wine

held together
by its label –
a crushed whiskey bottle

whatever the weather,
his soft smile – 
the buddha in the garden

worn in places
to the bare wood –
the golden buddha

travelers still catch
the Greyhound there –
the boarded up diner 

rain at graveside –
mourning clothes
soaked a deeper hue

after the burial –
a day moon
rising

he looks perplexed -
the scarecrow,
chest deep in the river's flood

zazen -
the hum
of the Fridgidaire

bridge night -
trying to remember
our last passionate kiss

flag ceremony -
the old vet's uniform
hangs loosely

between Cassiopeia
and me -
fireworks!

lilac shadows
scale the garden wall;
slip off into the woods

full moon -
even the dilapidated barn
looks majestic

mountain rain -
the beetle and i
scurry for cover

snowmelt -
the garden blooms
with children's toys

love letters -
i rake the embers
of the fire

camellia buds -
my wife begins
to cradle her belly

a second glass of wine -
the poem goes
unwritten

credit crunch -
a half-dozen fireworks
greet the new year

head cold -
missing the scent
of winter heliotrope

new highway -
every mile or so
the corpse of a buzzard

september morning -
fresh flowers
on the roadside shrine

night fishing -
my rod-tip brushes
the milky way

traffic lights -
just enough time
to scribble a poem

midwinter dusk -
oak branches fracture
the western sky

autumn lake -
half-hidden by drifting leaves
a carp's bronzen flanks

autumn chill -
struggling to remember
my father's voice

september rays -
my son's shadow
lengthens

old woman
carrying her bags
spring wind 

a skein of birds
twines across the sky
the northbound train departs

dawn chorus begins
I reach for
the snooze button

new buds
on old branches
once again

crackling campfire
the comet's tail
streams toward morning

rainy day--
the pine cones close
one by one 

awoken by thunder --
fading into the call
of the imam

Seafood tank,
Lobsters move slowly,
Far from Maine.

a butterfly
over the bouquets...
I tune out the speaker

senior's home
we celebrate the new year
a 7:00 pm

roadside rest stop
he adds a haiku
to the graffiti

dull pencil
the staff meeting goes
on and on

A snowy footbridge
the sound of water
under the ice.

under the oak
blue feathers
black cat

thunder storm--
on the sidewalk
earthworm slick

sudden thunderstorm-
open umbrellas flower
in many colors

night breeze
carries a moth
to the moon

lonely butterfly
in the quiet morning light
where are you going?

Indian summer
turkey feather falling
just out of reach

Tropical storm warning
Wet sand in our kisses
The opening sky

first time--
your curly hair
tickled my thighs

tornado
in the wreckage
a bird sings

Walking
quiet thunder
spring rain 

Balloon floats
Over garbage truck
Party is over

looking at the sky
dandelions with haircuts
oh, that wind, that wind

summer afternoon
the scent of evergreens
slowly spreading

Autumn night --
Puddles by the wayside
filling with the stars

Orange sunrise peaks through
The tubes and wires of father's
Life support machine

autumn morning
the smell of fresh rain
in my coffee 

hunter's moon
the old tabby
refuses to come in

north winds –
snow flakes and
the smell of smoke

intermittent light
the firefly never
where I expect it 

honeymoon site
grandmother revists
by herself

maple tree
the scars
of its healings

seeds catalogue
in the mail
the spring in hand

late rising moon
fireflies decorate
the tamarind tree

moving day
my life
reduced to boxes

her famous blue haiku
about her divorce
and his cactus

morning sun
the crumbs on the table
have a shadow

guitar and harmonica
in my car bob dylan also
is still 20

a morning haiku
exhaled
in a breath cloud

rainstorm
ants drink
from a droplet

meteor watching --
a match lights up
an unknown face

monsoon-
on the window a leech climbs
the himalayas

shortest day
birds at the feeders
dawn to dusk

forest vines
have seized the steering wheel
crow’s caw 

shade of the church
she says she’ll show me hers
if I show her mine 

autumn leaves
I add orange peel
to the potpourri

ring around the moon
this uninsulated
hotel room

maternity ward
hard looks when I shake
the gumball machine

dripping headstone
inscription for a ship’s crew
lost at sea

bones buried in the yard
snow on the roof
of the old doghouse

tide pools
a plastic bottle full
of sea water

hors du bordel
the gentleman chooses
a fresh boutonniere 

autumn equinox
the third quarter profits
just pay off the farm loans

vigil
kerosene lamp growing dim
in the light of dawn

mating season
two radiators making
one cloud of steam 

raining--
last night's baked chicken
tonight's curried soup

beginning of winter
the snow piled high
on the lawn chairs

graded papers
suddenly the rosebush
blooming

void encroaches
as vision vanishes:
glaucoma wins

this heat --
a butterfly carries soot
from the train tracks

glowing
over the city dump
Harvest Moon

autumn rain --
refinery lights remind me
of Christmas

topless,
the skyscraper
in rain mist

fading light -
the stone steps brighter
than the foliage

sundown
summer evening melts in dark
fragrance of tea~

misty summer rain
calling pheasant
in Zen temple

a wild violet
on the sunny hill~
noon time nap

Spring equinox
Pray the ancestor grave
In cold rain

venus in the morning sky
at the blue rain barrel 
a doe stops to drink

in a bowl
that survived last night’s earthquake
placing my wedding ring

his eyes
watching their eyes
watching her

spring cleaning --
a family of raccoons
empties the goldfish pond

campfire embers
one firefly
lights our tent

twilight
in the Chinese lantern
a glowworm

sleepless night
a square of moonlight
crosses the room

night watch
in the sheperds eyes
a flock of stars

crescent moon
a new path
to scatter seeds

Country cemetery
snail on corroded tombstone
trails from A to O...

Ancient roman ruins
along both sides of the road
white jet trail above...

Sky dewed with stars
cool air listening in news
a man was hanged.

foggy glasses . . .
   a blurry paragraph
       above the bath water

new year's day . . .
     spent bottle-rockets
           in the road

wolf prints . . .
  the gas lantern
     splutters

novocain prick--
the warmth where
the dental nurse leans

the smell
of many campfires
in this old hunting shirt

cinco de mayo
horses roll
in the shallows

vanishing difference . . .
  gliding geese settle onto
    their reflections

folding chair
the newborn colt tries
to stand

damp straw . . .
   the day-old colt mesmerized
       by the radio

prying
   at the window . . .
       wind

silhouette. . .
  a shining snow path to
     a pale moon

hillside thunder
barely a rainbow in a plume
of smoke

morning camp
only an ember remains
but it's enough

storm warnings . . .
sunday afternoon by the fire
mail from an old friend

leftover summer grass
... horses browse
through crusted snow

old leather saddle
cherry colored and shiny
smells of horse

the same moon
shines on us both --
these cold sheets

last leaves
shaking on a branch
late migrators

Back from the garden :
lots of beans, zucchini
and a haiku

greyness –
of the chocolate fish
crunching a bite ... 

retirement home
my mother talks to me
about the one with the gray hair 

under the red trees
from the busty blonde
the perfume 

this autumn morning
in the mirror
my father 

rooftop firepit
sparks mingle
with the stars 

winter moon
the cold, clear, clanking
of train cars

Standing silently 
In autumn rain
The old cypress

tuning out the news
on the back porch
barn swallows 

winter sunlight
on rumpled linen
those slow hands

jasmine
beneath the stars
his blue eyes

wine sapped moon
the distance beyond
her lover's wife 

ferocious storms
wakened by the wet
of a dog tongue

winter sun
the slow drip-drip
of an icicle

starry night
a million words
unspoken

the last of the boxes
finally moved out
cloud covered sunset

handing off the keys
a chill wind hustles
the end of April

all the birds
unnamed on the fence
spring rain

labor day
and still
no labor

open jalousies
the missing scent
of his cologne 

wine moon
the heat in the kitchen
so close

sunny afternoon
sand swept
behind the door

middle of the night
on a wicked wind
passing news

morning stillness
a bird song
I've never heard before

sunday sermon
children's voices 
mix with the choir

Mother's Day
everytime
she calls

heavy rain
a darkening sky
behind her face

summer storm
the estate sale next door
continues on 

Sunday afternoon
bittersweet chocolate
and swapped addresses

Sunday dusk
a last wine bottle
piled in the trunk

Boston news
a crazy day and yet
that butterfly

dockside fight
french fries in a pile
of seagulls

habemus papam!
I've always loved
Latino men

internet break
the smell of rain
and boggy earth

shortcut. . .
the railway tracks
still vibrating

past midnight
public television
lights up the room

warm drizzle
cinnamon buns
and tea for two

distant thunder
a whiff of
foreign perfume

autumn morning
dew-drops dripping
from a cane pole

autumn sun
hidden in the flower bed
mushrooms

Indian summer
the baby in the back seat
mine for a week

waning moon
my parents visit
comes to an end

morning mist
his wallet and keys
missing again

making a u-turn
clear in the rear view mirror
autumn afternoon 

graveside service
slipping from Grandma's book
pressed wildflowers

middle of the night
my fingers tick tick ticking
a hot flash haiku

hot, humid day
a jazz station plays
cool tunes 

night watch
the ex boyfriends house
on google earth

autumn wind
another  leaf flutters
from the pile

standing alone
under a double
rainbow

summer rain
the missing scent
of cologne

summer twilight
push mowers stop
for crickets

this sense
when first we met—
blue hyacinth 

predawn crows
—I argue 
with my therapist

climbing rose
the cut marks
on his wrist

drying shed—
a hint of thyme
in the onions

long blue tail
of a damselfly
kite festival

sun striking
the hour glass—
spring equinox

the weight
of the muddy river
jerry-can on her head

morning fog
in the mangroves
temple gong

first rinse of the rice
a wild scurry
of clouds

silent flight
of a raptor
your breath on my neck

summer sun
each spoonful
a taste of cayenne

far side 
of the moon—
that stolen kiss

wood knot
in my pocket—
fog over water

a long wooden pier
at the end
a glimmer of light

red moon
the calligraphy
of charred trees

the bent nail
where garlic hung . . .
winter moon

heat haze
the miles
of boundary fence

a few notes
from an untuned piano... 
autumn rain

old pond
oil slick rainbows
slip in 

temple looting
another buddha
loses his head

white dawn
a moon crab sinks back
into sand

winter beach
i throw a stick
for no dog

beer garden table
the blurred edges
of many circles

retirement home —
the same pot of coffee 
sitting all day

Saturday morning drizzle . . .
a driving lesson 
with my dad

after each haiku—
the pencil
a little shorter

cup of tea ---
the moon still
until i sip it

fresh sawdust
among the birches --
his bent shoulders

discarding
the tea leaves--
distant thunder

scent of roses --
counting the stars
one by one

thunderstorm --
a shadow pauses
at the gate

autumn moon 
the burn of the whiskey 
you left behind

in the churchyard
where my father found god 
bruised apples

forgetting his voice
my dad’s apology letter 
crackles in the fire

dad's suicide 
a candle burns away
its shadow 

slow dancing --
snowflakes swirl to the sound
of silence

dead of winter
blossoming in the darkness
my breath 

midnight coffee
a spoonful of sugar
stirred into the darkness

sleepless night -
in the distance
midnight express

visakha moon
smell of incense
from another room 

Indian summer-
farmer's
cracked lip

starry night. . .
counting out my pills
for chemo

gone...
the space between us
filling with wind

ebb tide
giving and taking
a yellow plastic spade

white light
from shore to shore
even the heron has flown 

moving in...
a child's growth in inches
under old wallpaper

the hush of snow
coffee bubbling on grandpa's
pot-bellied stove

a funeral pyre
of autumn leaves
winter moves in

approaching storm
the last magpie
takes flight

shifting light
the grey heron and I
in deep reflection

after the rush hour
at the intersection
only rain

December morning
the scent of coffee beans
and cinnamon toast

boys on the town
which statue will wear
a traffic cone

hospice tea...
for a moment Mother
remembers my name

summer love
a sudden blush
on her pallid cheeks

into the silence
the piercing wail
of the night express

the racing heart
of a startled deer...
blood moon

midnight...
the steady rhythm 
of her IV drip

storm warning...
the first rustle
of trembling leaves

midsummer night
the scent of woodsmoke
drifting through laughter

ploughing contest...
the farm horse wearing
a scarecrow's hat

derelict house
but with the morning
sunshine

shaking sky...
in the wheatfield
a scurry of mice

autumn languor
the soft shadows
of dying roses

summer picnic
my daughter's shadow
wearing daisies

monsoon...
beyond the rush of sound
the silence of birds 

deep into winter... 
the remembered scent
of lemongrass

on the far side
of early morning silence
a gathering of crows 

whole day
at the department-store -
house in shopping-cart  

storm clouds -
mother searches for
candles

lavender blooms
next to the violets
in a blue pot

stars
a full pool
in the garden

frigid job site -
the cement mixer
wheezes to life

moonlit 
our cell phones charging
side by side 

through closed eyelids
lightning strikes
my dream

from a mirror
pale blue eyes stare knowingly
the snow will deepen

prairie roads
in ditches full of snowmelt
moons float

a kitten...
will it too forget
its first snow?

full moon night...
starting the camp fire
with a page of fashion magazine

a new cellphone...
so many people to talk to
till the battery dies

out of the city,
so many stars
unnamed

late summer rain --
two kids break the bottles
under the bridge

acorn falls
the sound of rain
continues

the moon
in every puddle
the same

Falling leaves
I already miss you
This winter

children voices
from under the grass
concrete bunker

white mountains
as quick as it can
train passes by

campfire ~
steaming pot
and shoes

raking the leaves ~
wind blows
the wrong way

hot beach sand...
between my fingers
a cigarette butt

between the second
and the third line -
short trip to bathroom

dentist's office -
cracks between tiles
filled with dirt

after a cold night
a cup of coffee -
oh, man!

Xmas away from home -
B-52 pilot
dressed as Santa

hedgehog in the fog
looking for apples
under the wrong tree

autumn deepens—
a fish slides down
the cormorant’s throat

milky scent
of the calf’s breath—
morning moon

feathers in the fire . . .
a cardinal’s song
between thunderclaps 

late frost
warmth of the tea mug
against my cheek

library return
her hand's warmth
lingers in the book

cloudless sky
the gleam of fresh lemons
in a blue bowl

rotten apples
we let the storm
pick them

end of summer
we no longer know
what sleeps in the barn

after the postman --
nothing in the mailbox
except a lizard

November afternoon
the insistent bell
of an ice cream vendor

van gogh's blue irises
hangs on a wall, with
other gardens

things come and go <>
raindrops
on the pine

my stone Buddha
sits in the dark <>
snow, snow, snow

midday heat
under the shade tree
an empty chair

A lull in the storm --
the woodpecker darts
to another tree.

The thyme
has gone to seed --
summer's end.

cherry petals
flying higher and higher -
storm in my valley

a cup of tea
and a koan to go -
my cold morning

severe frost -
the sparkling whiteness
of my brown roof

autumn deepens -
I wonder what my neighbour
is writing today ?!

voices of autumn -
the patter of raindrops
on my rooftiles

first cicada -
the hot day seems
even hotter

red poppy dolls
sit alone by the beach -
dead children of Tohoku 

politicians play
the same old games -
long rainy season

earthquake night -
the stars are as silent
as ever

table 4 2
- a romance reduced
to numbers

cold sunshine -
the icicles refuse
to melt

cold night -
the deeper levels of dreams
and fears

when celsius
and farenheit meet -
cold night

New Year's morning -
I wipe some dirt
from my glasses

blizzard -
the heavy weight
of snowflakes

menopause -
she even quarrels with
the autumn moon

fighting
the summer heat -
no time for poetry

the future
deep in the tea leaves ...
spring growth

first firefly -
the moon also shows
his face

wisteria blossoms . . .
the faint memories
of grandmother's lace 

daybreak - - 
light and shadow 
on the apricot blossoms

how black !
dirt on the last patch
of snow

rainy day -
I finally finished
the Spring Saijiki

computer crash ...
I wish I were
this butterfly

my daily bread
on the empty table ...
spring equinox

old plum tree in bossom ...
last year the old owner
died

moonlight
on the temple roof -
and silence

autumn equinox -
all the crows celebrating
with grave offerings

the dance of
echoes inside a crypt . . .
winter chill

dinner outside ...
the crumbs walk along
the brick wall

a tiny world
unfolds and thrives -
summer rain

the backyard
of a poor man's home ...
summer heat

more rain -
lavender leans
on the stone Buddha

no fireflies ...
moonlight reflects
on camellia leaves

first firefly ...
a quiet night and then
lightning

powlonia blossoms -
a haiku floating
in the sky

a centipede
takes its morning walk ...
aah, my kitchen table

winter,s end ...
my warm socks
with big holes

spring sunshine
on the cat's belly ...
mountain hermitage

late snow ..
a pheasant calls
in the morning mist

Ides of March ...
anyone remembers
the history teacher?

spring blossoms ...
the old farmer
coughs blood

winter sunset -
half of my Buddha
still in the light

remembering you -
the sparkle of the last
icicle

first sunrise -
a fallen camellia
shines on my path

winter sunshine -
the slow growth of a stone's
shadow

autumn equinox ...
the murmur of waves
slowly changes

high autumn sky ...
in the world of men
voices of insects

autumn deepens ...
these tiny pink flowers
on my wildest weeds

in the shade
of the full moon ...
distant fireworks

summer heat ...
the cats sleep
on the barbeque

looking for fireflies ...
I almost miss
the dramatic night sky

meditating
on a rainy day ...
new green tea

morning prayers -
the graves of the ancestors
in deep silence

day moon <>
the clock has stopped
ticking

autumn evening -
the lingering warmth
of this old deck chair

summer's end -
my cat still high
on the hot tin roof

autumn with alzheimer -
she breaks the bread
.. ... .. carefully

globalization -
he serves the sushi fish
on french bread

lightning
far away in the sky -
first firefly

summer in the temple -
the horns of the dragon
just visible

may rain <>
ever more sparkling
shades of green

Confucius <>
another long path
to the old pond

late spring -
the old kettle
still shines

war in Iraq -
a spider hides
in the cherry blossom

blue mountains -
the old tombstone
keeps watch

spring storm <>-
the tall pine leans
toward the short

rosebuds in snow -
the softness of his hand
on my shoulder

spring storm <>
the wind rings our
visitor's bell

mandarin ducks -
a silent pair on
the dinner table

winter in town --
the stone memorial of the
God of Water

winter morning <>
a few dewdrops on
my last rose

winter sunshine -
the many shadows of
a small camellia

wedding anniversary  <>
does he still love me
like the red winter berries ?

cold winter day -
hot tea from Kenya
in my cup

mountain temple -
a prayer overgrown
with moss

autumn deepens  <>
a last sunray
on the pines

misty morning -
a black and white world
behind the graves

doing the dishes -
a tiny soap bubble rises
toward heaven

summer sunset <>
your hand heavy
on my knee

snow on red leaves <>
so many coincidences
in my life

the dragon <>
now a cloud
in my sky

autumn deepens <>
memories fade into
misty clouds

autumn deepens <>
the crows chatter muffled
by thick fog

just staring
at some autumn clouds <>
a hot cup of tea

lunchtime <>
a dead cicada
surrounded by ants

fragrant daphne <>
the money collector stops
before he knocks

hailstorm <>
under the groaning roof
I hold my breath

an old temple
amongst cedar trees
too many leaves fallen...

forgetting my words
step by step
the autumn night deepens

a mosquito
aiming noisily <>
the sound of one hand

watching summer clouds
thoughts shaping and
reshaping

fine shell new moon
onto cherry pink horizon...
shades of easter egg

alzheimer’s
white white white
snow falls

Pomegranate jam
the wild smell
of autumn

corner of dark street
shadow of 
ice cream truck

highway drive
crescent moon fading
into dark

summer morning
kiss bridges the gap 
between iron bars 

in the mirror
the stranger coughs
morning fog

after midnight
squashed roach
still moving

familiar names-
the warmth of a woodstove
in January

childhood scrapbook
the life expectancy
of Scotch tape 

frost moon
I tell my daughter
the truth

restless night
the morning starts
without me

black friday
two crows tear
at a plastic bag

tan lines
and coconut oil
high tide

antique store window
looking at dirty street snow
through colored bottles

cold attic -
faded cigar box
filled with seashells

windless day
the prolific weeds
at the grave site

egret stands
in the blue rice field,
dusk creeps in

long centipede
on the ceiling- long talks
of what to do

white clouds drift
in the August sky,
a child dreams

Eating alone --
The sound of cold milk
Into a glass.

a dragonfly
on a dragonfly
summer heat

tying a knot
in the grass blade
midsummer

a dead key
on the grand piano
winter darkness

old sandbox
the weeds
all grown up

bright and full
above the fields
coyote song 

beer bottles
clink in the cooler
summer solstice

watching the deer
watch me
morning moon

blossom rain...
the way she laughs
at all my jokes 

the moon
almost empty
winter rain

the scarecrow
covered in crows
widow's farm

misted air 
mother stirs autumn
into jam

state lockdown
resisting the tyranny
of cupcakes

lockdown
sometimes the old teapot
seems heavier

snuffed candle smoke
the shades of family ghosts
filling photographs 

abandoned church
a whisper of wings
from the shadows

lost in the crowd
the emptiness
in a beggar's bowl

summer’s end
a marsh heron lifts
into dusk

history repeats
the old station clock
aligns its hands

night train
I travel alone
with the crowd

funeral morning 
my battle-scarred tomcat
brings me a purr

another noon
still standing
in my father’s shadow

lighting cigarettes
from each other's cigarettes
the slow setting sun 

hailstones
against the windscreen
our silence

small white butterflies 
she starts to think
it might be too late

sunlight
on grandfather’s whiskers
we close the lid

in the rest home lounge 
the quiet piano
its line of cracked keys

evening breeze
winding through war graves
the scent of mown grass

transit camp 
dust tracks deepening
on the child’s face 

gliding back and forth
through the office aquarium
goldfish and workers

in the old folder
of accountancy reports
a pressed wild flower

white satin 
cool against her skin
choosing a coffin

fortieth birthday
fastening my old belt
at a new hole

abandoned steelworks
a small weed
cracking concrete

thunderstorm downpour
thrashing against the window
her sweat on my lips

darkening skies
cattle clatter down the ramp
into the abattoir 

electric storm
out of a dark horizon
a raven's eye 

summer thunderstorm
filling air with tension
she crosses her thighs

taking the old road
to my father's stone
the slow tilt of stars

nude in the sauna
the young woman pours water
on stony silence

silent 
as a mouse
the trap

kissing the widow
along her silver neck chain
the glint of his ring

how slowly
the coffee drips
morning rain

packing away
the baby blankets
late frost

wishing 
she wasn't cremated
Mother's Day 

chemo patient
seeking inspiration
in a bookstore

Just before; 
The dish hits the floor 
The silence 

One just sits;
And blue dawn light floods
his poor house.

Soprano, clear and cool,
and pale violin float;
Above the freeway noise.

the winter sun 
in the cancer ward -
a quiet old couple

old pond -
another lily
in bloom

no real reason
for a small sadness
late white roses

between downpours
orchestral swell through
a half open window

through a wine glass
the swaying of
feathery grass heads 

wild poppies
gusts of music from
the midsummer fair

shadows. a window ledge
just big enough to hold
two doves

half moon
only broken crackers
in the tin

revision notes
brushing sand
into the gaps

the first dusk of may
it's suddenly there
a pale orange poppy

dandelions . . .
two drinkers unzip
by the path 

scrunched-up clouds
a blue plastic bag
in the nettles

early spring
one morning the clang of
scaffolding poles 

platform 9:
through the glass roof the shapes
of swooping gulls 

sneaking out
thru' the bathroom window
steam meets fog

in my rear view mirror
the moon
on full beam

hard frost
wrapping myself up against
the breakfast news

winter bleak
under the rail bridge
graffiti blooms

christmas lights . . .
high above the street a skein
of twilight geese

in the walled garden
the scent
of decaying apples

another day
another apple crumble
. . . autumn deepens 

autumn days
the weight of my life's
unpicked apples

hindsight
a field of
cut stalks

tree burl
summer reveals
my old scars

our shadows
leaning on the railings
on the pond

wind chime
my phone picks up
a wifi hotspot

fallen apples
the constellation of
the gardener

forget-me-nots
our white dog shakes off
pale blue stars 

remembering you
cold and warm
on the same breeze

day break
half a pale blue
egg shell 

good friday
the outstretched arms
of the espalier pear

how high into
the hillside cemetery
the fog tide rolls 

Exposed roots.
The tree outside her
childhood home

Punctuation.
A rose petal falls
from the vase

all the suns
that we can muster
winter celandine

work done
my shadow reaches
the sunlit laurels

the window cleaner's ladder
leaves two small holes
in the planet

Oh, a cold rain
again fills the river
with circles

Moss on the roof
tiles. First one cat
then another

year's end
there's a hearse
in the fast lane

geminids a couple
of white pills before
i go to bed

double whisky
everything glistens
in the mist

overcast
until a white moth lands
on my phone screen

wind chime
a text brings news
of his death

frost burn
high windows blaze
with sunlight

glistening frost
the slow blue arc
of a buzzard

roadkill pheasant
all the blustery colours
of autumn

in the hedge
the lighted windows
of a train

even after 30 years
the scent of honeysuckle
one summer night

monday morning
ant traffic on the main stem
of the rose

full moon
a pear hanging
this side of the wall

starless night
the cyclist
without lights

hawk, on a fence post.
first light,
the rain a kind of mist.

day moon
the jellyfish we spot
from the end of the pier

high summer
where the shade stops
so does the dog

not long till sundown
into the willows
a yellow frisb e e 

another cloudy night
i google
the moon phase

sunless days
the world locked in
a pine cone

easter sunset
a red-tinged cross
of contrails

neatly stacked
the scents
of sawn timber

plum blossom
the haiku poet's mind . . .
elsewhere

spring sunshine
on a high branch a plastic bag
puffs out its chest

winter solstice
inside the hollow tree
fire blackened

a cut glass bowl
holds the shells of our summers
this life in exile

hard frost -
deep in my coat pocket
summer sea-glass

that same music
again and again
winter rain

the graveyard
our icy shortcut
through the winter fog

icebleak
no colour but the rail bridge
graffiti

still life -
at the lake's edge a tree's reflection
caught in the ice

november sun -
leaning on the old stone wall
a shadow tree

the year's end
all those graveyard names
carved into the fog 

war memorial
snow has almost covered
the poppy wreaths

pumpkin moon:
tai chi movements time
the eclipse photos

frost
on the pumpkin:
lunar eclipse

earthquake
with the typhoon -- more coins
at the temple

Memorial Day --
a shadow for each
white cross

spring moonset --
a rice ball for
breakfast

tailgating trucker
is that load bound for K-Mart
worth more than my life?

This road
no one goes down it
autumn evening

Natural rhythms
moons and tides supplanted by
yellow red and green

Seven miles per gallon
Bush thanks you for 
supporting the Iraq war

My Ford Explorer
on a never-ending quest
for a parking spot

Cochrane Alberta 
Coyotes howling in the night 
Honking, geese at dawn 

Like Custer's bugler,
you sound the charge. Remember
the Little Big Horn.

I-5 corridor
Microsofties creep to work
slowly, in nice cars

If you really love
America hang that flag 
on a bicycle

Atlanta traffic
easy to see why Sherman
burned this city down

a hundred streets named
peachtree - no wonder sherman
burned this city down

I saw that finger!
yes you in the Intrepid -
we shall meet again

he's a stop and go
christopher columbus in
your ford explorer

brooklyn bridge walkway
bombsquad found a stray backpack 
homeland traffic jam

keep an eye open
for food, gas and ten-year-old - 
an amber alert!

the mailbox
captive in snowdrift
a letter from war

late afternoon –
a wind chime softly sings
in snowy garden

autumn bonfire –
all my summer dreams
scatter with the smoke

growing darkness
gleam of setting sun
on Chinese Lantern

concentration camp
winter branches touch
the statue's shoulders

stripping off
her sweatshirt ~
sparks in the dark

valentine's day
only rain
on the scarecrow

aged painter ~
trembling leaves
from the tip of his brush

a new month - 
different seeds 
on the spaniel's ears 

dream catcher
the shifting colours
of rain

wild wind
on dry sedge--
what more on her mind? 

oak stump-
i remember the hornets
last summer

apple core
how to bottle
memories

first dawn alone-
the widow eats his half
of the orange

lunar eclipse-
his eyes on her frayed
jeans front 

petal gust-
the street flutist's
scrambled notes 

blue dawn?
the rain's last phrase
on a glass pane

red lobster-
her prying glance
through the mist

mixing bowls-
the shallow echoes
of bells 

winter solstice
the widow tightens
her braids

candle drippings
on the epitaph-
a broken word

granite wall
a cold touch so hard
to resist

mountain wind
the echo of a cuckoo's
cough louder

overcast
an orange scarf flails
on the clothesline

plop
the sound of bubble
from a carp

pine strand
flailing in night sky-
the first low star

twilight rain
the blue heron mid-lake
somehow smaller

evening mist
in the distance
a yelping

opaque windows 
>barring the dawn 
>of the new year

even seagulls 
>imitate the stones 
>first frost

the sound of foam
withdrawing from the shore
our unsaid goodbyes

winter trees
waiting on the silence
our breaths

full moon
he smoothens a wrinkle
on her hand

somehow
our shrinking shadows touch
harvest moon

crocus buds--
secrets we've kept
from each other

cherry blossoms
shedding in the moonlight--
the Milky Way

winter sky--
the white cat's eyes
bluer--

the coming of summer-
all the petals
i brushed off my hair

gray spring dawn-
the shiver of daffodils
in my bones

this cold-
Sakura cherry blossoms
on my window

this sunless spring day
chickadees chatter on-
my indecisions

watching rain
drum beat on window pane--
the deaf cat

spring fever--
shoots among the lilies
she can't name

mirror-
she sees her flaws
in his eyes

mirror
her mother's lips
pursing like hers

between her
and his goodbye-
sudden hail

from haiku scribblings
to a prayer
on a giant wave

secrets--
burrowing in sand dunes
a pale sunlight

left out in the rain
her old haiku
on cherry blossoms

late winter walk-
soft rain on bare cherry trees
harder on my thoughts

in the mist
waiting to meet you-
budding crocus

frosted dawn-
his words hang
over coffee

deep winter--
nothing much to say
even among crows

on street -
a shower of petals
for no one

first frost--
the last of the roses
have lost their names

girl in Sunday dress
in her father's shadow--
lost too soon

day after Christmas-
crows waddling to bus stop
no one awaits

blizzard-
the slanting lines, piercing lines
our locked hands 

first frost--
the chapel two hours darker
for vespers

white sun
burning through November sky
her nth unanswered call

turning
one leaf at a time-
entries for memorials 

autumn sunset
breaches rain-swept horizon-
as embers sizzle

picking autumn leaves
off the grass, her grave
nothing but fine rain

pomegranate seeds
bursting in their hands
613 haiku

on an evening trail
of red dragonflies swarming
in a pool, stars 

leaves crackling-
in her grave tiny hands sweep
leavings of sparrows 

swarm of tiny wings
fades out in the autumn sky-
unfinished journal 

white moonlight
seeps into my sadness-
into a mulch bed

grey skies grey thoughts
so clear as reflections
on rain puddles

crow and I
scanning yards for signs of life
eye at each other

maple twig
turns lemon hue in the rain-
i reply to summer mail

folding beach mats
the whiff of fresh grilled corn
this chilly morning

dawn by the river-
we breach a wall of sand
the cry of a loon

crow browsing grass
steps on camellia blossom-
fractured silence

cloudy day--
my thoughts stuck
on a spider web

A red berry falls
Staining the snow --
A silent sunset.

This dark night;
Only white spots move
On the calico cat.

love again
the scent of cypress
after rain

spring thaw
water from the fridge drips
onto the floor

Post Office --
stamped on the sidewalk
pink blossoms

Suddenly
somewhere in the fog
Crows calling

New year’s day
Donkeys aflank
to sunrise

Oregon summer
The haze from distant wildfires 
turning the moon red

When my time is done
remember I saw swallows
taking their first flight 

Flank to the sunrise
Old donkey taking winter
one day at a time

Withering daisies
Brittle petals littering
the dusty pasture

A young deer peering
at me around the hedgerow
Then, the silent leap

October daisy
bedraggled but still upright
The cold morning rain

Herding a young deer
through the gate to its mother
Steady autumn rain

Patient old donkey
waiting for her morning hay
Gray August sunrise

Orion rises
dragging Autumn behind him
Late August morning

Foggy day --
On the Verrazano
the car vanishes

wooden Buddha
with a cracked head on display
no buyers

hibiscus
under the eaves
frost burned petals

the fish lazily surface
in the pond nearby ~
the sun on my teacup

dusk-
an unfinished sweater
on the rocking chair

sleepless night -
the whistle of a distant train
going  where ?

last straw rejection --
the telemarketer tells me
I'm too old

poetry meeting
I try to read my haiku...
a frog in my throat

here and there
breaking through the dusk's mist
bright lights

mountain pass
we rebuild the cairn
to fit the wind

a back road
and a flat tire . . .
the peach blossoms

voices of loons
cross the misted cove
call and response

storm clouds -
the roofer talks about
overtime

nearly eighty -
opening
a jar of preserves

long after
the funeral service
- the unspoken words

rainy day--
they give me back
my shoelaces

paper couture-
she wears my love letter 
close to her heart 

weathered wall-
a hint of the height marks
left behind

backwaters -
i row my boat
into sunshine

orange and fuchsia -
the way the sun sets
on her saree 

prayer lamp -
something of me 
in the moth dust

charcoal graffiti -
a heart on the mud wall
bleeds in rain

masala chai
in an alien street
a whiff of home

collecting shells -
a bit of sea breeze 
in my pocket

autumn rain -
a clay duck’s lidless belly
fills with stars

summer butterfly
a girl wearing a white dress
in the morning breeze

covid-19
a butterfly trapped
between the doors

Valentine’s Day
another heart attack
in the old neighborhood

prairie dogs—
mares tails
over Little Big Horn 

morning fog
a railroad crossing
at the end of the world

ginko
the group returns
with a hundred selfies

Easter Sunday--
my mother's bible
stuffed with obits

spring morning
a railroad bridge
into fog

idle conversation
the daffodils nodding
In the breeze

Indian summer
a yellowed postcard
falls from the book

lighting 
the paper lantern--
autumn sunset

Groundhog Day
another friend
returns to earth

missing you
the cry of the loon
from shore to shore

murmurs in her sleep--
the moon slips behind
the clouds

cold night--
snowflakes settle
on coal cars

winter evening
the last dried pepper
goes into the soup

interstate
an Amish buggy wavers
in a thermal 

dusk
the space between us 
filling with snow

winter solstice
the Virgin Mary receives
a new light bulb

soft jazz
candle light and lip gloss
in the corner 

Earth Day...
slowly the anesthetic
takes effect

August 6--
my father does not say
good morning

cloudburst 
the last nail hammered 
in the rain

autumn chill
the mausoleum covered
with sparrows

autumn chill
the chalkboard screeches
at her touch 

signal station
a woodpecker taps
in the dusk

snow flurries :::
a blue jay's feather
clings to the yard 

snow glare
onion bulbs sprouting 
from the bag

geriatric ward--
the table groans
when they fold it up

sun dog--
so many names
carved on the cliff 

Easter--
an anxious mother calls
in the wind

breathless --
camellias falling
one by one

starless night--
Las Vegas spills
over the desert

fragile morning--
a blue psilocybin in the middle
of the garden

spring wind --
the magnolia sweeps
the sky

night shift --
he tree frogs sing a road
through the forest

a dark horse
with a blue harness --.
winter solstice

cold spring --
burnt waffles
and raspberry jam

mid-summer --
the nighthawk cries between
Pittsburgh and heaven

on the roof late --
my brother hammers nails
in the moon

New sheets.
I remember
your hands.

soft rain . . .
the way the oncologist
says "we"

thinking of her
in the past tense . . .
cloud shadow

the beggar
counting coins . . .
first stars

twin towers
repeating their absence
day after day

waiting for a call
from the son who never calls –
Mother's Day

post-election
washing the dishes
doing the laundry

wave from a kid
riding the carousel . . .
summer's end

abandoned factory . . .
parking spaces marked
Reserved

eighty-third birthday
I read the directions
one more time

a day
at the beach
June 6

night rain 
drumming on
my mind

old friends . . .
the garden fading
into twilight

petals in the wind . . .
my neighbors practise
tai-chi

home for Christmas
the fruitcake we always
pretended to like

autumn leaves
my fear
of falling 

cold moon
the sound of my words
in her eyes

the heat . . .
a silent fountain
drenched in moonlight

trick or treat
I promise the vampire
the dog won't bite

fireworks over . . .
the silence
of the stars

walking home
after the rainbow
a crescent moon

Omaha Beach
the sound of wave
after wave

Memorial Day
old enough to remember
a time between wars

Memorial Day
we try to remember
when the war began

she tells me I missed
a beautiful sunrise
black no sugar

children's voices
who will tell the dandelion
it's a weed

her obituary . . .
the things we did
that summer

a homeless man
rises from the sidewalk
Easter morning

brightening sky
after the eclipse
a skylark's song

steady rain
a little salt
in my beer

crescent moon
the new home still full
of echoes

first pussy willow
I open my notebook
of unfinished poems

the curved back
of a garden Buddha
winter rain

year's end
the time it takes a contrail
to dissolve

deep in the woods
leaves drifting over
what used to be a wall 

autumn light
nobody I know
in the obits

autumn leaves
I follow
their drift

where the carpet
is wearing thin
autumn sunlight

as old as I feel
on a gray morning . . .
autumn equinox

evening calm
her garden the color
of moonlight

awake
in the dark
the darkness

narrow path
I make way
for the butterfly

coming home . . .
the scent of the ocean
before the sound

Labor Day
a fly buzzing around
the leftovers

poor neighborhood
a dog barking at the end
of a rope

vacant lot
hardly worth
a haiku

steady rain
where the bookstore
used to be

class reunion
an old friend's glance
at my name tag 

Easter vigil
candle flames tremble
at our breath

just passing through . . .
a parking lot where I saw
Gone with the Wind

train window
the landscape coming 
to a stop

a furniture store
where the church used to be 
vernal equinox

midnight
the silence beyond
the streetlight

waving goodnight
after the party
the chill

the white coffin
she was buried in
this winter light

first snow
a walk through fallen leaves
to my childhood

harvest moon
the things I have left
undone

harvest moon
she tells him
she's late

downtown
pointing the way
with her cigarette

twelve years old
learning to pronounce
Hiroshima

an infant asleep
on her mother's lap . . .
this heat

the silence
around our words . . .
fireflies

winter moon
a tired old man
in the mirror

the laughter of children
running uphill . . ;
Gettysburg

waiting up
for their teenaged daughter . . .
distant fireworks

evening rain
she lets down
her hair

at the end
of a long afternoon
my faded shadow

awakened
by moonlight
an old regret

only the wind
off the ocean
Omaha Beach

a few petals
left by the sweeper . . .
sunset clouds

locked out
I write a haiku
about daffodils

another spring
who will tell the dandelion
it's a weed

powdering the dog
a child asks if fleas
go to heaven

Valentine's Day
shaking the snow
from the roses

a toast
to the departing year -
snow turns to rain

after a storm
the absence
of a tree

waiting room
the steady hum 
of the fish tank

in the nursing home
she talks about the brother
no one talks about

the morning sun
on grandma's grave
first butterfly

writer's block -
staring out the window
at snowflakes

Easter Sunday
the carefully trimmed beard
of the young priest

reading
the tea leaves . . . the gray
in her hair

new moon
an orange-eyed opossum eat
its dead

the doctor wants
to take a closer look . . .
coffee gone cold

good news
from the cardiologist
autumn butterfly

dusting the books
I'll read when I have time
winter solstice

Indian summer
the slug's pneumostome
wide open

burning leaves
the kiss she'd give
before we'd part 

dried leaves
hurry down the path
standard time

sleeping late
this autumn morning
the bed half empty

crisp wind
the taste of the apple
just after picking it

night wind
the moon in a corner
of the window

on the beach
by the ancient city
sand castle ruins

rain
mixed with snow
spring equinox

Valentine's Day
we let the champagne
go flat

her head
bent over tea leaves . . .
how old she's grown

long winter
my wife slows her pace
to mine

undressing for bed
I find a hole in my sock -
the winter wind

returning spring
in the dawn light she looks like
my first love

morning prayer
the patter of rain
as I reach amen

teenagers
exchanging promises
summer's end

75 today
I walk through a puddle
because I can

her Alzheimer's
a dragonfly
goes . . . comes

last of his line
the year of his death
still uncarved

snow falling
on the headstones . . .
just and unjust wars 

petals in the wind
my neighbors practice tai-chi
in the parking lot

first firefly . . .
she asks me to repeat
what I just said

first light . . .
after the car alarm
birdsong

second martini—
I like the way she asks me
if I twitter 

my first bite
of persimmon—
a trace of Shiki

Holy Week
she teaches her grandchild
to light a candle

another spring
I revise
my death poem

winter break
I hope I'll be home
for the crocuses

garden Buddha
morning rain washes away
the snow

the age
I used to call old . . .
winter solstice

quiet Sunday
a winter fly
too slow to kill

old photo
I recognize
my father's silence

hard times
the car salesman's
missing tooth

starry night
one firefly
after another

Assisi sunset
pilgrims gather
at a gift shop

city sunset
he buys her
a rose

red light
the bus driver reads
his horoscope

flag pin
in the salesman's lapel
Memorial Day

the soft patter
of a computer keyboard
midnight solitude

main street
a red pick-up cruises
the spring rain

traffic jam
a flight of geese
across the highway

first light
an unknown bird
sings me awake

darkened church
she teaches her grandchild
to light a candle

Ash Wednesday
this is the year
he'll quit

thin crescent . . .
I wonder what
she meant by that

packing up the creche
one of the wise men
is missing

cold moon
a carriage horse trots
up Sixth

cold moon
the glitter of city lights 
in the river

thin crescent
she closes
the curtains

whistling kettle
snowflakes
in the wind

cold rain
lavender neon surrounds
a sex shop window

twentyfourseven
an empty laundromat
at dawn

overtime . . .
through an office window
the harvest moon

a night of fireflies
and cricket song . . .
the end of summer

rain on the lake
turning down
the volume

where do I
put the accent --
Hiroshima

brookside
whales are roaring
in a poem I read

sudden shower
cursing the umbrella
he left at home

mother's day
something sexy
for his wife

war news
I wash the ink
from my fingers

rainy night
a light in
the bookstore window

wiping his eyes 
before the lights come up-
sad movie

winter sunset
shadows of branches
climb the fire escape

January walk
Santa Claus and a flag
in a neighbor's window

my friend's ashes
heavier than I expected
winter wind

home for a visit
the sound of rain
on the river

low mass
the old priest believes
more than he remembers

new year's party
the divorced couple
leaves together

midwinter
the coffee drinker
sips tea

morning rush
reading Walden
on the subway

election day
revising the poem
one more time

fog moving in
another phone call
unreturned

summer rain
my umbrella
stays closed

early summer
old women in the shade
of the bus shelter

a boy and his dad
playing catch out back . . .
long shadows

main street-
ribbons that used to be
yellow

terminal . . . 
his favorite ice cream 
melts in the cup

spring morning
those young men have noticed 
what she's not wearing

old western --
black hats white hats 
in shades of gray

spring rain
a man standing outside
the bus shelter

snowflakes
a robin's flight
from tree to tree

serving coffee
she asks if I take cream
the curve of her wrist

waiting for you
at the sidewalk cafe
half moon

chemotherapy-
she always liked the way
I kissed her hair

undulation
of a faded flag-
autumn afternoon

streetlight
my shadow growing
fading

do I know you --
my young face looks to me
from an old photo

torn shades
of dilapidated house
crocus blooming blue

from train depot
multicolored umbrellas
streaming along misty streets

between pages
a frayed recipe
in my mother's hand 

from basement window
the underside of sunflowers
striped deep-colored veins

before we crest
the sand dune’s tip
the question …

it’s only a tree
it’s only my horizon— 
rip of a chain saw 

helicopter seeds
crash land—
graduation day 

my mother in the mirror
dividing my hair
for braiding

she drank
to remember
why she wears lipstick

mid-autumn
our kitchen windows fog up
as the sauce simmers

pausing between
rain showers—
summer solstice

left to simmer
the kettle shrieks
until answered

slice by slice
the pie disappears—
blueberry stains

lunar eclipse
the weight of 
another’s shadow

the burnt-out 
apple tree blooms
rain drops

that shade of green--
the first fireflies clenched
in small hands

tube station ...
the homeless man still
in yesterday's news

city traffic
ants in and out
of a sparrow

shaking the stone from her shoe -
a white opal swings
from between her brown breasts

one hundred views
of the sunrise -
appartment block

winter twilight -
she studies the face
in her mirror

winter rain...
she places his flowers
in the second-best vase

fading light -
a red leaf bouquet
at the smallest grave

spring rain -
as the doctor speaks
i think of lilacs

false dawn
sometimes i still
think of home

first frost -
a twirl of yellow leaves
as the bus passes

plasma tv -
in high resolution
the homeless man's face

sparrow song--
two ladies on the verandah
just before the rain

summer wind
the blue jay's reflection
in the birdbath

a drunk asleep
on the beach--his mouth
open to the sky

the ant
wanders across the floor . . .
meditation room

family reunion
I stir tea
with a fork

first snow--
sour cream drops 
in the borsch

summer moon
visits the attic and touches
father's journal 

subway to work 
the scent of meditation
on my sweater

birth certificate—
water damage
on my name

in the space
of an om . . .
countless raindrops

echoing
in the cup . . .
winter prayers

subway air . . .
my wife and I talk
about adoption

pranayama—
the candle goes out
as it lights another

midnight . . .
scent of the incense stick
burning itself

subway transfer
the homeless lady
sells mirrors

between two
decrepit buildings—
poplar in late evening light

death anniversary—
a curl of incense smoke
stuck on the ceiling

I watch someone
watch someone else
the promise of rain

bare hill—
broken glass sparkling
where the sun moves

summer storm . . .
I push the beetle
back on its feet

predawn
a grey dove outside
my window

solstice
a shaft of sunlight
through rock

rainburst--
thoughts of you
fading

straw hat -
flowers fading
under the sun

Spring rain-
I sit looking
out the window

cold nose
burrow of warm flannel -
morning light

cool night air
city noises fade away
memories

cool night air
folding chair
meditations

market day
hot tired shoppers
wait for the free bus

call to prayer
roosters too
fresh morning air

dog barks
somebody starts their car
summer's morning light

deer carcass
alongside the highway
silently accepts the rainstorm

is spring coming
bombs raining down
on tripoli on aljazeera

winter sesshin
in the kitchen
my cracked teacup

after winter sesshin
sharing tea
silence

winter's cold
dreaming
of my ex-wife

the sulphuric scent
of winter coal
out for a walk

sometimes
sunny sundays in november
are unfair

sunny sunday in november
half assembled shelves
wait in the kitchen

sunday in autumn
neighbor needs money
for her cancer meds

november email
remembering sycamores
outside the window

october over
listening to heavy rain
call to prayer

heavy steady rain
back pain
skipped friday prayer

heavy steady rain
through windows through wet trees
the lake in the rain

passover
moon
through the bare branches

The Holy Land
no heat no food no water
craters

new fire old coals
in the old stove
new year

rainstorm
guests huddle with candles
waiting for dinner

after an hour of rain
the crickets
all seem happy

kumquats with Russian tea
then slowly
I undress Ellen

in the hyacinth garden
I sneak a kiss
between Jimmy's lips

September 11th
steady slow soft
rain

full moon
full ripe figs
end of summer

solstice
after the last match
the last call to prayer

spring
full moon
new roses

all night long on the veranda
drinking tea and talking
about God and our new parrot

Right, left
The flash of the float plane's light
Rain on the forest 

the crunch
of the first leaf
a sweet sigh

the sound
of the first fallen leaf
this Autumn day

2 am
rain and wind on the island
another insomnia night

Soft rain
her thoughts of lost love
intrude into her day

He looks at her
underlying chill in the air
smell of rain

Another day without him
she misses all the little things
still, the sun shines

cancer clinic visit
day breaking from the night
a seaplane is waiting

feelings of joy
float in and out
red seaweed 

On the pillow
his bouquet of wild flowers
this last day of Spring

Dusting off the ancestors
and stirring up memories
Spring cleaning

waiting for the sun
the clouds hide his face
first cup of coffee

awake at 3 am
she drags her kimono
from room to room

a milky sea
mass of logs sit and rest
as an eagle soars 

finally a day of sun
here in the rain forest
freckles on my face

From the tidal pool
Two crabs in an embrace
Today's lunch

Buddhist monks chat
On the 49th day of the disaster
Looking for lost souls

Dawn
The night separating from the day
A bird's song

On the table
Apple blossom branches
A new scent

Forever waiting
For the ring of the phone
Watching the rain

In the hospital
Watching the clouds drift by
Sharp needle in the hand

Grey and rainy
Going with my Mother
To a senior's complex

Soft rain
My Mother and I look
At retirement homes

Rainy February day
Cloud after cloud after cloud
Pray for a clear day

Chilly morning
Memories of a love affair
Floating in my mind

Home again
His scent lingers
On her kimono

Awoken at 4 am
The honking of Canada geese
Spring is here

Snowballs
her seasonal cookies
eaten one by one

Grey surrounds
wind blows in from the window 
Advents candles blow out

Winter solstice
too many things to do
this shortest of days

On the island
the first snowfall
red gloves

First mandarin
sweet and sour taste
scent of Christmas

Side of the road
flowers a deep shade of blue
thoughts fly to you

A wind up frog
hops across the wooden floor
thoughts of haiku 

On the weight scale
too many extra pounds
Autumn's abundance

Crunch, crunch, crunch
stepping on fallen acorns
this Autumn day 

Rain clouds
patches of blue in the sky
first cup of coffee

In the morning darkness
coffee cup in hand
missing the sunshine

Fall morning
fog resting on cedars
cup of Kona

Fall afternoon
the boat on the river
slow heart beating

Hazy skies
the cedars less dark
this Summer day

Crickets in the garden
time passing me by
Mother's ageing hands 

My son's birthday
not sharing the cake
chasing the seagull away 

cloudless night
she looks into the mirror
counting new wrinkles

Cloudy sky
the sun a bright red
first cup of coffee

(Rain filled morning
i hold my face upward
tears like rain

Cool and cloudy day
slowly the season changes
mirrored in your eyes

visit to the old villa
the scent of
lost money

After the Solstice
already feeling the touch
of Winter

The red breasted bird
outside the cancer clinic 
Spring nest building now 

Dark spring morning
busy conversation of birds
awakens interest

Morning sunshine bright
chases all worry from cancer
operation success 

Dancing in the yard
rows of tidy daffodils
oh so very yellow

A float plane
divides the Canada geese
Summer stillness

Summer solstice
the smoke of bonfires
hill after hill

Spring cleaning today
dead ladybug on the window
memory of lost love

Cold sea
and warm air merge
fog horns

scent of seaweed
drifts into the cemetery
i walk alone

In the cemetary
around his headstone
first snowdrops

a slow walk
to the cemetery
memory of blue irises 

Through the fog
a few spots of red
first Robins

Old chestnut tree
white candles sway
Spring wind

Ides of March
her letter to him
pain in his heart

Lights of the ferry --
leave the island of cedars
in deep dark shadow

The full December moon
he counts his birthdays
snow on the temple

The Advent wreath
candles lighting the dim room
his old eyes shinning

November morning --
counting the many
shades  of grey

Chilly morning --
mountains topped with first snow
warm coffee cup

Snow covered temple --
lone woman in a red coat
kneels to pray anyway

Indian Summer --
his voice in the fall
of the leaves

Through the  pulp mill smoke
A long red line is showing --
Start of a sunrise

The rushing river --
full of the Summer's
rainfall

The Budapest square --
Autumn leaves drift  here and there
on  young protestors

Dark August sky
the moon an orange egg --
her shadow trailing

Summer morning --
the sound of wind chimes
on every balcony

This Dark and grey day --
a soft rain falling down on
the heat-dried roses

Tonight on my deck
setting sun the longest time
bring memories back

Rain-laden cedars
my skin feels so moist today
scent of yellow rose

On this dark grey day
my thoughts wander to a pair
of  blue irises

A bone scan today
on the way three birds on the
rose scented old path

Hovering grey sky
a small crack in the thick clouds
fishing boats come in

Five years of haiku
in a  large paper box
on top, the cat

The morning birds
such a clear sweet sound --
making my bed

A Rainy cool day
promise of Kona coffee
from Honolulu

Belated and elated
your gift of a blue candle
for my birthday

In the early morning
down on the white beach --
a turtle without eyes

Grey and blue Spring morning
the lumber mill making clouds
my first cup of Melitta

Heavy March rain
the Daffodils hang their heads
my heavy thoughts

Clear Spring night
again i am thinking of you
waiting for stars to fall

Moon over cedars
in the rainforest
scent of you

Cherry blossoms
patients line up at the clinic
sweet scent

In the rainforst
moss hung trees
sound of silence

I check the calendar
to see if this is a special day --
International Women's Day

Late Winter
the yellow roses still  out
soft feel of snow

In a vase
twelve blue irises
late winter storm

March sunrise
rays of red and gold through clouds
a fishing boat returns

Yellow Winter roses
mist over the garden
sound of fog horn

At midnight
the fog horn in the mist
yellow roses

What was a storm
now lies wet and white
on the ground

Spring day
cool and grey
cup of tea

Grey today
the waves rush
memories

Spring morning
your hand on my breast
a bird

Parting the fog
blue nose of the ferry
homeward bound

Autumn sky
many layers of clouds
pile of leaves

Autumn sky
shades of pink and purple
field of pumkins

First day of autumn
splash of a spawning salmon
another cycle begins

Last day of September
bay and islands in fog
aroma of coffee

First day of October
the morning sun in my eyes
clank of the furnace

A fine mist
covers the tall cedars
foggy glasses

At breakfast
after first sip of coffee
i notice a rainbow

Wild fires rage
scent of cedar
fills the air

Over the bay
August full moon rises
as days shorten

Reading a book
a sudden brightness
the full moon

High winds
trees down on power lines
no morning coffee

On a grey day
a spot of colour
his red hair

On a clear day
from the pulp mill
clouds appear

From under the dock
come the Canada geese
one by one

A day of sun
after many of rain
my dirty windows

In the room
white lillies in the vase
scent of pepper

Federal Express
reaches me through the fog
plumeria lei

Talking with you
now this morning somehow
scent of plumeria

Red as the poppy
maple leaves fall
on the memorial

Light-studded ferry
passes in the starless night
another week-end

A tunnel of fog
connects the two islands
warmth of my duvet

October morning
a new pair of new wool socks
on my very cold feet

First day of Autumn
even your touch feels
somewhat cooler

Last night of Summer
the bright full moon of last night
hidden by a cloud

All my lights off
to watch the rising
of the Harvest moon

The sunrise
fresh salmon on ice
so very pink

Midnight and full moon
my neighbour asks to borrow
the vacum cleaner

The blue iris
colour changing hue
soft Summer rain

A sea change
the weather turns cool
hot rum and lemon

At last some sunshine
blue Pacifc this morning
boiling tea water

In this desert
a memory of blue sea --
shells in the sand

Autumn mist obscures
the island in the distance
she cleans her glasses

In the forest
patches of blue between
the tall pines

The tall pines
etched against the sky
late September

Nun and monk
watching the blue heron
fishing in the bay

Nun and monk
read the book together
in two tongues

The curved cheek
of the young monk
sunlight on the bay

rainy day
in the rainforest
drip, drip, drip

the seasons change
she buys new
colour contacts

winter night
hot buttered rum
fog on glasses

grey sea and sky
she dreams of
blue irises

after the party
a lone woman drinks
a birthday gift

An ocean breeze
flips through empty pages --
haijin's notebook

long after
the witching hour
a candle flutters

Pressed among pages
of old dictionary
a list of action verbs

At 12:01
he takes his bath
in last century's water

An orange and pink sky -
from the pulpmill a grey cloud
on the cool Spring day

the dog star --
feeling the bite
of winter wind 

cherry trees
fifty shades
of pink

one small step... 
I trace my toe in sand 
dream of lunar dust

Still under white sheet
his body four hours later-
Rain beats on pavement.

autumn night
the call of a locomotive
and I think travel

february walk
our breath clouds
side by side 

Mother's Day;
the smell of roses
near a grave.

picking flowers
an explosion of color
crosses the minefield

a thousand prayers
from valley folds and mountains
paper cranes

only two pinecones
on the park bench ~
Valentine's day

after the storm
puddles of water
with rainbows

alone
in the tea house
rainy night

black ice
covers the street
uprooted tree

a butterfly
hovers above me
friend's funeral

sad words
and tears in my teacup
rainstorm

moldy odors
in the nursing home
dying elders

mason jar
full of dead fireflies
dark night

lost in her mind
fields of white daisies
and summer

autumn's end
the air smells
different

candlelight bath
the steam rises
from my toes

wedding day –
our vintage vehicle
freshly polished

on the road again
dangling from the rear-mirror
my new dream catcher

finally spring –
the first cup of coffee
unsweetened

expanding universe
another hole
in my blue jeans

burnt out candle –
the lies we tell ourselves
before the day begins

palliative ward –
the dark red
of her lipstick

father's garden plot --
I'm waiting for the weeds
to blossom

back home —
the widespread arms
of a scarecrow

distant horizon –
the blue line
on the pregnancy test

first spring light
she deletes 
her fertility app 

returning swallows ...
she calls me
by my old name

nursing home --
a sip of water for
the potted violet

the tiny buds
of december roses ...
stillborn child

shell-shocked soldier
the therapist
still so young

moonless night -
a stranger changes
father's urine bag

tide change
the silence
as he guts the fish

late frost -
putting some salt
on the red wine stain

low tide 
against the black mud
bright egrets

As I struggle
with a heavy gate . . .
the crescent moon

Stopping
by the pharmacy
I miss the sunset

in a shoebox
all the candles
of uncelebrated birthdays

summer evening 
from the tall grass 
the slow rise of fireflies

breezy afternoon
  running my hands
  across the cool sheets

moonlit night
across the meadow
my shadow grows

the house painter
descending his ladder
blue sky

terminal illness
by the bedside a young nurse
reads a fairytale

sultry July day
a homeless fans herself with
a piece of cardboard

minus forty-six
steam from the coffee
warms my nose

winter solstice
chocolate squares
one by one

equinox
all the colors of Autumn
in the sky

(Winter soltice --
tangerine oil
in the water of my bath)

Work in the garden
warm smell of sweat
and of oregano

summer night
we turn out all the lights
to hear the rain

Tea fragrance
from an empty cup…
the thin winter moon

half-dark sky
a slow roll of thunder
joins the cicada

spring tea—
through bone china
her thin hand

late afternoon -
the fulness
of the cow's udder

late summer
butterfly wings clap
a little slower

full moon--
pumpkins in the field
ready to pick

overcast-
curls of smoke
over a shared fence

early thaw
the dog digs up
last year's bone

dusk. . .
the hiss of waves
over a stony shore

internet break. . .
so little left 
of this winter day

New Year's Eve--
the warmth of his eyes
over cold champagne

solstice birthday--
blowing out a candle
for each decade

overcast day. . .
even the poppies
stay curled up

early dawn...
I watch the New Year
spill down the mountain

clouds lifting
above the archipelago
morning light

the owl's whoo
unanswered
this autumn night

autumn morning
spreading marmalade
over burnt toast

autumn sun
slides through the blinds
withered sunflowers

candlelit pumpkin
the moths reflection
in the cat's eyes

still in bloom--
new shoots around
the fallen pear

New Year's Eve--
bubbles rise again
in the old crystal flutes

at dusk...
the sweetness
of the roses

winter pears--
eating around
the bruises

gibbous moon--
the baby stirs
in her belly

autumn deepens--
dusting off an old
bottle of port

election results--
low tide clams
spit seawater

evening walk--
acorn shells crunch
into the silence

empty bus stop--
autumn leaves swirl
in the car's wake

flu season--
to kiss
or not to kiss?

drought-
weeds sprouting
near the sprinkler

death watch...
I freshen the water
of her bedside iris

at the cottage . . .
last year's mosquitoes
on the bedroom wall

spring cleaning . . .
painting over
last year's mosquitoes

midnight.
the stallion's single kick
against the wall

quiet stable...
the sudden force
of horse piss

drought...
the first raindrops
bounce

overcast -
the next door pianist
hits a sour note

downpour -
the pumpkin's smile
goes out

we sip sweet tea
in silence. . .
a soldier's mother

autumn visit -
over war news we talk
of babies . . .

fireside -
a son's face smiles down
from the mantelpiece

in the yard
between our argument -
a red dragonfly

more rain -
mildew colors
the old roof

half asleep -
the rhythm of the
receding rain

wild iris
in the marsh
unreachable

drifting jet trails
half a haiku searches
for enlightenment

lee of the storm
the jagged edges
of the new pothole

flash of lightning
the salesman's oily manner
slips

bleached driftwood
the sand on the floor migrates
to the dustpan

deep fog
i wish i had another
cup of tea

blurry stars
the jasmine bloom
fills the air

lupine pools
another memory stirs
my nostalgia

globe lilies
an empty place
at the supper table

heat wave
the cat opens one eye
halfway

early stars
the weed-choked path
to the compost

haiku potato chips
nobody can write
just one

new leaves
the same old face
in the mirror

fine gray rain
a flashmob of santas
in union square

hurried steps
my frosty breath rises towards
the half moon

undecided voter
half a moon hangs
in the noon sky

autumn chill
the blind poodle caught
in the phone cord again

chemo drip
i wish i could give you the moon
instead

waning moon
the cricket behind the fridge
starts singing

autumn chill
her long fingernails drum
with the rain

farmer's market
checking out the guy
checking me out

leafless maple
she fingers the wool
of his last chemo cap

black lace and moonlight
her underthings draped
over the chair

empty bottle
we start singing
another old tune

black ice--
dad's last radiation
treatment 

fresh peaches --
the wet print of your body
on the pool deck

night on the town --
the scent of mackerel
on the fog

indian summer --
an unsealed letter
on the table

flute song --
the faint scent
of the easter lily

april stars --
two brass buttons
on the nightstand

lunch break --
the scent of apple blossoms
in the sunshine

nightfall --
shooting stars
on the power lines

mixed rain and sleet
the hothouse rose drops
another petal

distant siren
the hurricane lantern swings
on its hook

fine rain --
a faded plastic flower
on the window

october clouds
grease stains in relief
on the highway

indian summer --
the ceiling fan creaks
on startup

cold snap
the refrigerator freezes
the lettuce

november sunshine
the taste of lemon pepper
on my lips

gray thanksgiving
an outburst of laughter
from the kitchen

winter twilight
the warmth of his back
against mine

summer stars --
my husband starts snoring
again

evening --
the scent of water
on asphalt

day moon
cottonwoods shimmer
in the breeze

distant thunder --
another iris opens
its petals

prayer group
eight candle flames flicker
with our breath

stone fountain
rust stains
in the empty bowl

hiroshima day
the first meteors fall
silently

spent dandelions
a weather-beaten lawn chair
on the bare patch 

unknown soldier
a fallen comrade carried
by two ants

tall grass
an old DeSoto
beyond the old Dodge

somber skies
drifts of dead fir needles
on the road

erosion ~
a flattened possom
in the road

mosquitoes rise
the damp scent of clean clothes
on the line

hot and humid
the tea kettle dribbles
onto the counter

first light --
cherry leaves heavy
with rain

ethnic cleansing
the colored woman scrubs
the white toilet

evening prayer
hailstones rattle
the windows

piano recital
a steady drone
from the coke machine

sudden hail
the child's marble bag bursts
as he runs indoors

distant thunder
the sharpness in her voice
after my comment

blind curve
dogwood flowers unfold
in the rain

new book --
the hands of the clock move
faster

march warmth
the taste of curry
on his lips

false spring
the minty freshness
of his kiss

popping gum
the vacant look
in her eyes

wind and rain --
wisteria blooms entwine
the barbed wire fence

sensuous lips
the young man tells me
about his fresh fruit

sudden chill --
my aunt corrects
the children's manners

winter's end
another bite
of green curry

spring gale
raindrops on the raw wood
of the new fence

tart raspberries
evening comes earlier
and earlier

half-light
the cat turns and washes
one paw

armistice day
a rainbow of wool drying
on the clothesline

summer love
a faded red t-shirt rots
in the gutter

september grasses
the rumble of a distant
trash cart

lofty thoughts
the crowns of the redwoods
lost in the clouds

dry haystack
the muffled sound
of rain

morning tai chi
my form wavers
with the barking dogs

leftover meatloaf
we have an argument
about his ex-wife

midsummer stars
the cry of a loon shatters
the darkness

railroad tracks
summer shadows fade
into twilight

summer evening
crescents of cantaloupe
on a blue plate

fresh tea
the warmth of his lips
on mine

high summer
a cloud of flies
over the road kill 

neglected garden
the sweet peas
stage a riot

prayers
for a dying friend ~
azaleas in bloom

tax morning
my undrunk tea cold
in the cup

samhain night
another wreath
goes up in smoke

moving day
a wet maple leaf sticks
to the mattress

drought's end
she scribbles haiku on the back
of her grocery list

chocolate santas --
do you bite the head off
or nibble the toes?

california dreaming
a white christmas
inside the snow globe

church bells
she leaves her good intentions
in her hymnal

grandpa in his coffin
she sings a lullaby
before they close the lid

no moon
the hiss of the ocean
against the cliff

half-mast --
september sunshine streams
through green maple leaves

october haze
a frayed american flag
on the new pickup

turning leaves
red, white and blue bunting
covers the mailbox 

retirement community
speed bumps
in the cul-de-sac

woodland graffiti
a fallen branch carved
by bark beetles

all souls day
the scent of smoke lingers
in my hair

summer fog --
layers of color
in the sand

summer twilight --
the clock ticks twice
for each cricket chirp 

slug trail --
the truck dumps asphalt
in the paver

finished compost --
the vegetable garden feasts
on chocolate cake 

four am ~
the silence between tick
and tock

temper tantrum ~
the ring of the axe blade
on redwood

same old moon
the blur of insects
against the stars

hot morning
a bright red poppy buzzes
with seven bees

brake lights
on the beach freeway ~
heat rise 

scent of autumn ~
the first bite of an apple
crunchy and sweet

october wind ~
the baby drops the leaf
again

back porch campout ~
the tall trees darker than
the summer sky 

almost dusk ~
the quarrel of children
in the treehouse

empty teacup ~
the laundry basket
overflows

open suitcase ~
she reads the oncology report
backwards

tilted fence ~
layers of shadows
on the ivy

autumn twilight ~
an algebra book open
on the couch

sleepless night ~
a new tooth
in the baby's smile

twilight ~
pools of lupine
in the deep meadow grass

high bridge ~
the soundless splashes
of dropped stones

shaking out crumbs ~
the smell of rain
on asphalt

fourth of july
a cottonwood blizzards
on the picnic

spent tea leaves ~
the scent of almonds
and cinnamon

rainy day ~
precipitation
in the baby's nappy

coming home
piles of laundry on the floor
light and dark

morning tai chi ~
a breeze stirs the spent petals
of the cherry blossoms

cloudburst ~
an apple tree rains petals
on the asphalt

haiku ~
attentive to this moment
i smile

wet starless night --
a smiling moon shines
on her umbrella.

autumn chill
a faint rainbow
in the shower

march sunshine
the distant call
of a robin

mountain cabin --
the voices of people hidden
by the night

endless summer --
another beach boys tune
on the oldies station

distant hawk
a gust of cherry petals
crosses the lawn

day is done
poppies amidst
the dying grass

celtic harp
the first raindrops touch
my cheeks

desire
the honey
inside me

february 15th
a broken heart
in the cookie box

lost friendship
a stray wisp of fog clings
to the canyon

contact lenses ~
the pines on that hill clear
for the first time

birdsong ~
the rush of the river
over stones

spring afternoon ~
the leaf shadow spreads
on the pond

quarantine
we watch the bonsai
growing

wind through the pines
I add his death date
to the family tree

one finger
raised in greeting
heat wave

machine gun fire
she stirs more honey
in her tea

cinnamon oatmeal
still some things right
with the world

edge of the woods
some things I may not want
to know

beach vacation
every night between the sheets
a little more sand

unconcerned
with divorce rates
mating butterflies

the skipping stone
all the way across . . .
end of summer 

family dinner
our teen speaks
in hashtags

night rain -
Chopin's nocturne
drowns it out 

summer rain -
lightning whites out
the street lights

the crow -
balancing on a wire
and now, in the wind

dawn haze -
the bulbul's trills
so clear

midnight -
only jasmine now
and cricket song

equinox -
the bulbul's song on the edge
between day and night

spring evening -
a boy hums the tune I heard
half a mile ago

tattered clouds -
the moon's whiteness is
icier tonight

unaimed day -
beneath the flipped stone
five black beetles 

cricket song
softly, outlasting
the trucks

red poppies...
the butterfly always just
out of reach

night silence -
despite the dogs, despite
a crying baby

monsoon clouds - 
a heron bathes in a pool
of light

night rain
a bat wings its way to
tomorrow

unhurried
the egret whiter
than the clouds

veins of lightning
split the sky - 
smell of wet earth

moonless
suddenly the silence
bigbangs into barking

rain on leaves tiles earth 
flute notes slither through
the water sounds 

grey-yellow dawn
a dove's urgent cooing
and the rain

that cricket -
it's THERE
or THERE! 

still night -
the smell of fried fish drowns out
the traffic sounds

through the window
half a mirror showing
a quarter room

cool breeze -
a thousand things undone
I watch the moon

storm-washed sky -
the bird songs
clearer

midnight -
my earphones
keep out the silence

darkening street -
two babblers on a wire
and then the moon

midnight -
the windy silence
of the sickle moon

after the solstice
this summer heat
still the same

night drizzle
is that donkey's braying
filled with pain?

hot oil sizzles
on an iron frying pan
kitchen god speaks

darkening trees -
a flight of parakeets
brightly lit

silver moon
a loudspeaker barks
at the night

midday heat - 
the insistent call
of a dove

noon heat - 
a pigeon shadow shimmers
across the tar

unanswered
the dog's howl fades
into the night

roadside cricket song - 
the full moon's risen
above the wires

moonless night
dead silence but for
one cricket

day of remembrance -
the night silence
same as always

evening voices
the moon
so huge

rusty fence - 
a sunbird
in one of the diamonds

the rising moon pales
down here the cricket's
unwavering song 

high-stepping,
an egret walks its shadow
across a white wall

bulbul blues
a yellow flower floats
in my tea cup

lakeside
the long silence
before the loon's reply

getting the phone - 
the soft tapping
of the rocking chair

rabbit in the moon
each dog has the last bark
till the next

cold night
a cricket's
insistent mantra

cloudy
the metal-edged whistle
of a dove's flight

moon-paved road
I take the lane
without the dogs

haze over the hills
the rain has filled
this morning's footprints

night silence
a facebook cry
of loneliness

deep silence
that crack in the wall
looks wider tonight

the moon's emerged
now water drips only
under the trees 

last light
listening for the silence
behind the rain

night rain -
baking smells from the house
with the jasmine

brown earth
a hawk's reflection glides
across the puddle

rain on the leaves
just one
firefly

night rain
a bus rumbles through
the croaking of frogs

red sun
the air glitters
with dragonflies

dim porch light
I spit orange seeds
into the darkness

shrilling cicadas
two women smile
at something else

between fiery clouds
and shadowed earth
a string of egrets

another year
the inscription hard to read
with all the grass

naked light bulb
the rain on the leaves
barely audible

roosting egrets
the lake's silence settles
on everything

petal-strewn earth
a mynah hops into
a patch of sunlight

declining moon
the old man's laughter
turns to coughing

February chill
a punctured heart balloon
bright red in the dust

darkening trees
the steady shrilling
of cicadas

election results
the muezzin's call
like a lament

almost full moon
knowing what's for dinner
I still check it out

same moon
same song
another cricket

rumble of thunder
the hawk-like flight
of the pigeon

starry fireworks
a smoke cloud
drifts past Orion

night walk
I slow down
near the jasmine bush

Beware Of Dog sign
the bright pink tongue
of the puppy

cold sky
after my friend's cremation
I water the garden

a cricket falls silent
the clock's slow ticking
goes on

morning mist
the sun does not reach
the side lane

now what?
the papaya tree has reached
the cement awning

past midnight
and a dripping tap
a man's voice somewhere

neon light
the leaves of the bush
almost black

wedding band --
smoke from the fireworks
dissolves against the stars

half-empty train
the hand-holds sway
in unison

a break in the clouds
spider webs and plastic bags
catch the morning light

blackout:
morning glories appear
in the car's headlights

distant temple drums
close by the sound of a dog
shaking itself

hot night -
after my bath
the world seems cleaner

steaming tea
dusty cobwebs above
the late owner's photo

lemon slice moon
a kite glides past
the palmyra palm

cycle cart -
the office chairs' legs
point to the moon

muezzin's call
a kite's silhouette
beneath orange clouds

muezzin's call
a one-horned cow pushes
at the hotel gate

smoky moon
a cricket's regular chirp
between the traffic noise

fluffed-up sparrows
the air white with snowflakes
above the tar

anti-war demo
snowflakes melt
on the horse's backside

cold rain
a bunch of daffodils
against the brick wall

blinding snow
man and dog tracks
run together

night stillness
a new mail
in the inbox

Valentine's Day
a red rose
stuck in the snow

snow melt --
chewing gum spots appear
on the pavement

loud pub music
a long silence
between the flirting couple

orthopaedic clinic
a three-legged chair
outside the entrance

the plane's landing lights
a wave of barking
sweeps the neighbourhood

hot afternoon
a flirting couple
in the memorial's shade

last red in the sky
a small girl's moon face rises
over the counter

day moon
the woman with silver hair
steps back into the shade

Science day
the programme begins
with rituals

traffic argument
the camel's sneer
is impartial

traffic jam
three saffron-robed men munch nuts
in their SUV

eddying leaves
the old woman's wrinkled face
and saree

morning mist
the iora is gone
before I recall its name

drifting fog
the house across the road
reappears

long-distance train
men on the platform
talk on their mobiles

two minutes silence
a cell phone keeps ringing
Nehru smiles from his frame

Venus
a faint glow
from the refinery

road accident
a crowd of teddies stares out
from the shop window

grey sky
the cluster of white breaks up
into egrets

night traffic
the silent lake
seems much bigger

last light
sounds of crows settling
in the tree

deep night
one cricket chirps
anyhow

ants transport a moth
traffic noise penetrates
the bamboo grove

afternoon lull
the traffic island
crowded with pigeons

bike tail lights
a lingering smell
of perfume

quiet lane
after the jasmine
smell of fried onions

fallen tree
the poor woman's axe
gleams brightly

muddy street
the black pig's feet
and tail tip are white

unkempt garden
a hibiscus blooms
amongst the weeds

sunset
the shopkeeper burns incense
to drive out mosquitoes

sudden rain
cows crowd the entrance
to the hotel

opulent temple
pigeons occupy
every niche

cloudburst
the flies are already
in the house

soft rain
the sound of hammering
from the construction site

day moon -
the girl brushing her hair
smiles suddenly

home again
even the ants
seem familiar

cool morning
a fog of insecticide
in the red truck's wake

flight of egrets
a boy stands with his ear
to a telephone pole

last station
the king of hearts on the floor
of the compartment

crystal morning
dried puke
on the car door

midnight
the moon dances
in my teacup

burnt-down house
yellow elders bloom
in the garden

waiting for moonrise
the moving red dot
becomes a plane

harsh sunlight
faces peep through the bars
of the police van

moonrise
a woman croons
to her baby

empty street
the For Sale sign
overgrown with weeds

gust of wind
a woman’s face lights up
by the cooking fire

a bullock cart
loaded high with shoe boxes
the driver’s cracked feet

small talk
sixteen ants on the wall...
seventeen...

petrol fumes
smell of fresh bread
from the bakery

clacking rails
five languages
in the compartment

rice-green pond
dark herons stand
in an arc

sultry afternoon
little mirages
above the tar

melting tar
silk cotton drifts
across the road

smoky moon
a cloud of insects around
the street light

burnt house
the owner’s name
on the iron gate

smell of newsprint
twenty beauty queens
with one smile

funeral procession
a bee lands
on the flowers

clear night
a fireworks flower
opens against the full moon

dry stream bed
clouds drift
above the train

morning chill
a spider's web gleams
on the barbed wire

rain clouds
a kingfisher watches
the busy traffic

cloudburst
two men in the doorway
chat about war

hot night
the moon nearly full
the mosquitoes too

monotonous rain
frogs singing
in many voices

hilltop
the clouds
rising to my feet

sultry afternoon
iridiscent fly gleams green
or maybe blue

along the pavement
snatches of the same song
from different radios

empty room -- 
endless TV ads 
for nobody

pastry shop --
so many candies smile
around me

summer's end -
under a lamp on the path
a moth's dying

parking for lovers --
many crocuses between
the wheel's traces

funeral procession
of the friend passes --
the crocus field

playing bowls,
playing at cards ...
old warriors

driving towards
crematorium along
the frozen road

Independence Day
after the rainy morning
a sunny afternoon

autumn equinox --
fox's eyes shining
in the twilight

overturned boat,
drawn high on the shore -
drumming of rain

meteor shower --
crickets occupied
by its song

watching Perseids --
a moth makes noise
on the porch

moths fluttering
in the paper lantern ?
a shadow play

nobody's here -
only a cricket guards
the alpine hut

long lasting rain -
the dog-rose petals clung
to the pavement

traffic jam -
a crow flutters in the place
over the bridge

summer's end .
their chirping slows down -
good-bye, cicadas!

above the cemetery
laser beams from the disco --
a calm cricket chirp

the rose hides
the date of death
on her grave

sultry twilight --
pauses between bird's singing
become longer

courtyard of my childhood --
after so many dead people
the old lilac in bloom

under floating clouds
the cherry blossom snow --
in the same direction

I completely forgot
the magnolia-tree,
till its bloom

I light on again
the candle on her grave
extuinguished by wind

first crowing
breaks my sleep --
year of Rooster

drinking mulled wine
on the square --
white breaths

late harvester --
sickle moon in the sky
over the mature corn

deep in the night
my computer turned off --
sound of autumn rain

crickets' songs
in the pitch-dark night --
how many secrets

nobody here
a table in the mountain
speckled with petals

trains come and go
but the same people
drinks at bar

little pawprints
in the concrete
from the lost kitten

her father's grave -
the little girl leaves a picture
of a dinosaur

Handel's Messiah
the same tapes my late-grandmother
listened to

turning another page
the bookmark couldn't keep
rolling thunder

sunrise---
a ray of light hits
my bathroom mirror

Winter sunset---
the whistle of a
Florida bound train

skyline fog---
all these CEO's don't look
out the window any way 

after the rain stops---
the skyline lights
glitter

Autumn---
New York State green apples
flood the market

overcast Autumn---
a teacher asks her kids
to draw a rainbow

morning blue sky---
the windows of a hot yoga class
fog out

First Day of Autumn---
a soccer referee pulls out
his yellow card

late night---
as city lights dim out
August full moon

August blue sky---
a window washer
runs out of soap

Ramadan starts tomorrow---
Moslems will fast
from dawn to dusk

July morning---
the smell of coffee
from an abandoned building

two men out on Mother's Day---
discuss Freud's
Oedipus Complex 

November mist---
for a better odor
visit the perfumes section

Occupy Wall Street---
color of their tents blue
like that of cops cars

morning haze---
a carriage horse wears
blinders

old laptop---
I back up my data
to the cloud

afternoon fog---
the day's news
in HD

a parked car has
its windows steamed---
a rainy beach day

next to the sunflowers---
pumpkins are
on sale

after the hurricane---
the skyline lights
burn bright

sunset---
the clean up
after a hurricane

pigeons are flying again---
Irene downgraded
to tropical storm

a hurricane---
the flies think
my kitchen is a storm shelter

August Friday happy hour---
the bartenders have time
to listen 

evening fog---
the steam room
is empty 

the debt ceiling will rise---
clouds break 
for the sunset

evening fog---
the sound of
a sax player

Summer blue sky---
a teakettle 
whistles

blue clouds at sunset---
an American flag
is lowered for the night

Summer strawberries---
they always remind me
of soul kissing 

July---
I skip the sunset
and wait for the fireflies

this morning thunder and lightening-
tomorrow's night:
July Fourth

IN GOD WE TRUST---
an immigrant looks at
a dollar bill first time

July sunset---
the redness of people
coming back from the beach

morning blue sky---
a baker cleans
his oven

a foggy day---
she buys yellow daffodils
on her way home

steady Spring drizzle---
a couple stop
to kiss

evening fog---
a gift shop has a poster of
the Empire State Building

morning blue sky---
a bakery runs out
of croissants

Saturday night fog---
the bars also
dim their lights

morning fog---
a man disappears behind
the Times front page

evening fog---
nothing but the lights
of Queensborough bridge

May dawn---
it's the same fog as
yesterday's dusk

Kentucky Derby---
the kids in bars are too busy
for a horse race 

Friday the Thirteenth---
my train arrives
on time

morning Spring drizzle---
a long line at
the bathroom

afternoon haze---
the park chess players
need more time

a Spring cloudless sunset---
the barmaid buttons up
her blouse

stock market closed
a trader invests in the afterlife---
Good Friday 

fog and rain---
I pass a closed
nudists club

evening fog---
only the sound of high heels
registers 

year's first hot day---
East River lovers
smooch in their cars

morning fog---
a driver stops to ask
where is Manhattan

nice Spring day---
kids draw in colored chalk
on the sidewalk

the sun shines into
my kitchen as it sets---
the smell of baked sugar

Saturday night wedding---
the bride
is a man

fog over the skyline---
I steam up my windows
cooking pasta

Libya---
only ones with money play---
others die

rebels retake Ajdabiya---
finally the no-fly-zone
gets teeth

fog at happy hour---
the bartender forgets 
my tequila sunrise 

sunny Spring day---
old graffiti catches
the eye

blue sky---
a man climbs the fire escape stairs
to the roof

Spring fever---
a cobra escapes from
the Bronx Zoo

afternoon fog---
the cat watches TV
instead of the window

crescent moon over the skyline---
she shows lots
of cleavage

Japan's power plant radiation---
the wind will decide
who dies

cloudy at sunset---
black and white graffiti 
shows more leg 

a rain storm ends---
the graffiti looks
dirtier than before

sunset---
the Empire State Building is lit
in red and yellow

Saturday night fog---
so many girls here
have a hoarse voice

her eyes---
a hesitant dog leads
a woman into a subway car

I put out the night garbage---
a Wolf
Moon 

fresh snow on the roofs---
the old graffiti looks
dirtier 

Saturday night---
talk of the recent snow storms
is a good ice breaker

1 11 11
too many smoking
chimneys

morning cloudy sky---
she comes out of the shower
wrapped in a towel

crescent moon---
she paints only the tips
of her finger nails

the noise of a garbage truck
wakes me up---
December harvest moon

Christmas Day nears---
the shopping bags
get smaller

candle light at sunset---
Hanukkah
starts

a crack in dark clouds---
a kid works out Rubik Cube
as he walks 

blue sky---
the wind disperses the scrips
of a stocks broker 

December cold night---
the sole sign of life
is the smell of cars exhausts

sunrise---
a yogi does
the Cobra

evening fog---
the cat comes back
with an appetite

morning fog---
the dry cleaner says
he can't find my coat

evening fog---
some one behind me
speaks in Cockney

Daylight Saving Time starts---
the cat still awakes
when it's hungry

crescent moon at sunset---
she hesitates then
kisses me

as she sits at the bar---
her jeans slide
a half moon

evening fog---
the cars parked on the beach
have their windows fogged out

East Side skyline---
the UN building looks
more like a hospital

dark clouds move
in between skyscrapers---
the Dow goes down

East River warm Autumn day---
a red oil tanker
zigzags

Summer barber shop---
sudden silence
as a blonde bombshell comes in

Summer sunset---
she ties her bikini top
before she gets up

flea market shopping---
you may have to pay in blood
the bedbugs scare 

sunset---
as the train starts
to enter the tunnel

East River night
cool September wind---
lovers stay in their cars

late August garbage bags---
a jasmine tree
near by

August blue sky---
the smell of sunscreen
in the subway

morning haze---
a beach beauty goes
topless

Hiroshima Day---
a Japanese ballerina
dances on pointe

Summer park---
every one is busy
viewing their phone screens

July sunset---
after a hot day
the watermelon tastes cool

sunrise---
my neighbor in her underwear
July's last day

no more dirty jokes---
the new barber is
a woman

July early morning---
a jogger carries
two bottles of water

morning fog---
Citibank building loses
the other half of its top

Summer hot day---
the sound of some one
playing the flute

afternoon walk---
the buzz of air conditioners
and flies

dark bar---
old man younger woman
and a condom machine

June swings from warm to cold---
I recall my ex
mother in law

sunset---
an ice cream vendor forgets
to put a cherry on top

Madison Square Park
nice Spring day---
no stock brokers 

dangerous intersection---
always fresh flowers
on one way sign pole

sunrise---
a yogi faces
the wrong direction

Gulf oil spill reaches
the wet lands---
bird songs black out 

Saturday night fog---
too many women
wear pants 

April sunset---
from the patio of
a foreclosed house for sale

first day of Spring---
two sweethearts kiss
under a leafless tree

she closes her
bathroom curtains---
a setting full moon

March warms up---
the barmaid opens
another button on her skirt

morning snow---
I tell my barber do something
about my gray hairs 

morning fog---
the subway is full
of steaming spirits

Superbowl Sunday---
no smell
of cooking

blizzard---
the bars are crowded
but the subway is empty

the cat starts
to have an attitude---
the year of the tiger

Martin Luther King Day---
Obama is busy
at work

Martin Luther King Day---
Obama est occupé
au travail 

I turn off my cell---
crescent moon
over the skyline 

as the train passes
graffiti murals---
sunset paints the sky red

as I pass her boyfriend's house---
a full moon
Winter's chill

the new year---
a homeless man
has a new sign

an old woman asks
for directions to a bar---
Winter

Claude Levi Strauss dies---
a florist has
wild forget-me-nots 

October dead leaves---
a witch passes me
hat less

Columbus Day---
the UPS guy knocks
on the wrong door 

morning train---
everyone is
on the same page

September Eleven morning
in a coffee shop---
the silence

August heat---
an ice cream truck
ran out of gas

blue sky---
August dust
on the radiator

morning haze---
I postpone
cleaning my windows

morning fog---
a street artist
draws with charcoal

blue sky---
the smell of
suntan lotion

Hiroshima Day---
the reason why
we must keep talking

an octopus spills
its ink---
clouds at sunset 

dense fog---
a nudist beach
empties up

Sunday blue sky---
a kid comes out
of confession

starless night---
a fisherman talks
to himself

morning fog---
a beggar wears
an orange coat

eclipse of the sun---
monks in orange
pray

hot July night---
my neighbor opens
her curtains

morning fog
graffiti artists are
busy working

Summer moonless night---
in the light of fireflies
we kiss 

a beach downpour---
they come out of the ocean
into a shower

late night on the beach---
the only light on
is that of the lighthouse

beautiful weather
on July Fourth---
in God we trust 

Central Park green house gases---
a carriage horse shits
as he passes me

cool July day---
the ice cream man
goes for a coffee break

late June crowded subway---
but no one has
a sun tan

Saturday night rain---
a couple eye the lobsters
in a water tank

June sunset---
when we wake up
how many died in Iran?

lunch hour---
a long line of women
at the ice cream cart

Upper East Side---
their graffiti
is cooler

June morning---
a line of ants
at the subway entrance

the recession---
more nude entertainment bars
open

a June downpour takes a break---
I go out to buy
more water

morning fog---
too much steamed milk
in my espresso

New York---
opposite a church a mosque
both have their doors open

morning fog---
she wears sunglasses
in the subway

Hudson River cool breeze---
so many men
go topless

late night---
she shows me her garden
I taste her tomatoes

blue sky---
as if last night fireworks
never happened

kids fight a gun battle
in the swimming pool---
Memorial Day 

ozone level too high---
a woman wears nothing
under her skirt

sunset---
the sound of people singing
as I pass a church 

East River green waters---
a friend gives me a sip
of his absinthe

dense fog---
a blind man crosses
the street alone

Friday afternoon downpour---
a beer truck stops
to unload

rainy May Sunday---
at a bus stop
an empty can of beer

morning mist---
she takes off her eyeglasses
to see me better

cold rainy day---
Cherry blossom petals
carpet the sidewalk

still no sunshine---
I eat
an orange

the sound of women
whispering -
moonless night

morning fog---
more talk about more
pictures of detainees' torture

afternoon dense fog---
the barmaid gives me
another for the road

over night trash---
the smell of
acetone breath 

April warms up---
the cat has
a new friend

Sunday morning haze---
she wants
her coffee spiced

Spring in the park---
two homeless men play poker
for empty cans

Obama's news conference---
I turn off
Mozart

Spring drizzle---
a newly homeless man
views an abandoned house 

Sunday morning blue sky---
I need more
Alka-Seltzer

rainy day---
I bet the barmaid
I can guess her age

a little girl blows
bubble gum---
cherry trees blossom

a sign on the door---
our sun tanning machines
are solar

lonely Spring Saturday---
I look at the graffiti
for a haiku

Spring drizzle---
the sound of high heels
behind me

clear day---
I view Citibank skyscraper
but where is the aura

waiting for a blizzard to come---
the bar tender ran out
of white rum

she puts the pads
in her bra---
a half moon

East River nice day---
a used condom
on a pile of dirty snow

morning fog---
the new graffiti is
minimal

late night drizzle---
she carries her belongings
in a kids cart

the night watchman
almost closes his eyes---
waning crescent

windy night---
a smoker finds shelter
behind a garbage truck

it starts to snow---
the cat wants
the milk warmed

blue sky---
dew drops on the cover
of the garbage can

a cockroach climbs the wall---
Charles Darwin is today
two hundred 

January warms up---
my neighbor walks
in her underwear

sunset---
as I walk on thin ice
I remember her

dawn---
a Christmas tree
sticks out of the garbage

the recession---
my neighbor puts
another lock on his door

cloudy January---
a white plastic bag
on a leafless tree

chilly night---
I ask
if I can sleep with her

sunset---
I turn off
the Christmas lights

snow in the forecast---
my neighbor's husky
wags his tail

fresh snow---
the graffiti looks 
dirtier 

dawn---
last year dust
on the Christmas ornaments

first snow---
bride walks out
of a church

back home
I wipe her lipstick off my cheek---
a half moon 

cold morning---
a cockroach warms up
under my coffee cup 

first frost---
I feed
the aquarium fish

dawn---
a drunk pisses
on today's newspaper 

gas station---
a GM car
needs a push

late November farm---
a turkey looks
well fed

her winter night gown
suddenly opens---
crescent moon 

Saturday night---
she wears her red high heels
Christmas nears

the recession---
the sun sets behind
Citibank skyscraper

my watch stopped---
I ask a beggar
what time it is

morning haze---
Wall Street has
disappeared

Thanksgiving day---
walking past
empty houses 

Sunday morning fog---
my neighbor's wife
is naked

Saturday night---
a carriage horse
flirts with another 

dawn---
waiting for the light
at the end of the tunnel

Armistice Day---
I buy
more Euros

the crunch of Autumn leaves---
as I pass
a dentures shop

November drizzle---
I turn off
the Zen music

daylight saving time ends---
the cat wakes me
an hour early

black cat tries to
open a garbage bag---
moonless night 

cold morning---
the bus has no heat
she knits a sweater

October night---
who cares how stocks did
crescent moon

windy night---
a witch walks home
Halloween nears

as I walk
on wet Autumn leaves---
a poster of McCain

blue sky---
no liquidity
at the banks 

clear October night---
the smell
of cinnamon

very dry night---
a half moon
hardly moving

Autumn courtyard---
as leaves fall
algae grows

September sunset---
a dead leaf
at my feet

I rush to buy
her birthday present---
crescent moon

Autumn downpour---
I stand under the canopy
of a house for sale

evening fog---
I watch my neighbor
smoke his waterpipe

blue sky
changes to grey---
Paul Newman dies

Madison Square Park---
why are bankers
looking down

September Eleven---
I remember to fix
lock of my backdoor 

a long weekend---
I ran out
of chocolate

hot August night---
she stands
staring out of her window

dawn---
the smell of watermelon
from last night garbage

early morning---
a yogi pisses
in a drinking glass

dawn---
a Coca- Cola sign
turns off

August blue sky---
a Chinese dragon
fuming

Summer thunderstorms---
a surfer puts his board
on his head

my train is late---
I watch a cockroach
going home

dawn---
a line waits outside
the dialysis center

morning---
smell coffee from house
of difficult neighbor

Summer haze---
she wears
a beige bikini

morning haze---
she asks
who picked our lilacs

Summer crowded subway---
the smell
of sardines

she wears tight blue jeans
and hijab---
July Fourth

July Fourth fireworks---
I stand next to
an Iraqi refugee 

sunrise---
a black woman in purple dress
glares at me 

a man at the beach yells---
I need oil to drive home
late June sunset

sunrise---
heavy dust on my copy
of Paradise Lost

June rain stopped---
a drunk waters some more
the lilacs

morning haze---
an exhibitionist keeps
the curtains closed

sudden Spring showers---
her mascara
runs

tough bar---
she just returned
from Iraq

low tide---
she's on seaweed
diet

Memorial Day---
waiting for George Bush
to leave office

Spring warms up---
tattoos
not just on the arms

hearing the call for prayer
as I pass a mosque---
Spring sunset

wind swept cold rain---
truck makes stops
to deliver bottled water

her blond hair shines
over her business suit---
full moon at dusk

the price of rice
goes up---
I start hoarding sake

foggy morning---
she wipes the dust
off her portrait

blue sky---
my neighbor tells
another big fish story

Tax Day---
the sun shines
on a house for sale

blue sky---
her windows are all
fogged up

new driver---
my bus arrives
on time

foggy day---
the rest of this
is at present not available

sunny Spring day---
at the corner store
firemen buy charcoal

dawn---
a pile of black trash bags
wait for pick up

Spring first day---
she wears
no bra

full moon---
the barmaid kisses me
on the cheek

windy day---
the mailman
arrives early

holding the binoculars
in her hands---she has
more rings than Saturn

rainy night---
the clicks of high heels
behind me

for the new year ---
a temple nun
washes Buddha

a construction site
on a Winter day---
got sand in my shoes

alone on a pier
he plays the trombone --
Winter sunset

blue sky---
white lilies stick out
of a garbage bag 

sunrise---
new graffiti
in black and white

new year's day---
there is rice
on the sidewalk

strong wind---
an inflatable Santa
decides to fly back north

Thai restaurant---
Christmas songs
only in the kitchen

gloomy day---
the Christmas lights
shine brighter

morning fog---
the graffiti
looks subtle

walking in first snow storm---
no one
in a hurry

Christmas shopping---
I forgot
her present size

wrong address---
the doorman wears
a diamond earing

waiting for dawn---
I put milk
in my coffee

she has a twinkle
in her eyes---
I order more oysters

morning haze---
I watch
high definition TV

Thanksgiving Day---
a rat awaits
arrival of the garbage

Black Friday
starts at midnight---
a long line to buy bagels

Thanksgiving leftovers---
a harvest moon
wrapped with clouds

geometry lesson---
day moon
next to a contrail

Madison Square Park---
cold wind makes it
harder to day dream

putting diamonds
on the heads of rusty nails---
first frost

Veterans Day---
smart people
start wars

late October warmth---
a witch
smiles at me

dark clouds at sunset---
my neighbor
lights up his pumpkin

the flu shot---
my last time
mother held my hand

Indian reservation---
too few home owners
for a subprime crisis

sunset---
a balloon moves up
till it disappears

crowded subway---
he gives his girl friend
a long kiss

overcast sky---
he hands out fliers
for a tanning salon

morning stillness---
the cat watches
a butterfly

October sunset---
have to go to the kitchen
window to view it

October cold wind---
her yellow skirt
rises

going out she hides
her wedding band---
crescent moon

dusk---
crescent moon amongst dark clouds
I light more candles

a bride walks up
the steps of a church---
September blue sky

morning haze---
her bubble bath
is ready

Madison square Park---
I watch the moon
through an American Elm

dry late September day---
the sun shines
on her freckles

blue sky---
outside a clinic
a nurse takes a smoke break

Labor Day---
a migrant worker sells
American flags

hot afternoon---
she's lost in her book
I in her décolleté

hot September day---
homeless man stands
by ice cream truck

a street artist
soon finished the skyline---
September fog

cutting up red pepper
for the salad---
a drop of blood

she ties her grey hair
in a bun---
August blue sky

eating chicken---
the wish-bone so small
I wish better weather

the remnants
of a hurricane arrive---
and his mother-in-law

arguing with my neighbor
across the fence---
a sparrow changes sides

happy hour---
she tells the bartender
she lost her wedding ring

dark August clouds---
looking up Hiroshima
on the map

morning fog---
listening
to minimalist music

Madison Square Park
live folk music---
no one wears red suspenders

Summer haze---
the nude beach
is empty

July dawn---
the pier is littered
with beer bottles

old couple view
a distant lighthouse---
July moonless night

Fourth of July---
another day
at Guantanamo Bay

Independence Day---
an illegal immigrant
serves me a meal

the long days of Summer---
I start reading
Marcel Proust again

hot day---
she writes a haiku
in minimal clothes

cool breeze---
the cicadas
sing louder

Summer Solstice---
an air conditioner drips
on my neck

end of the month---
no bread left over
to feed the sparrows

Summer carnival---
a flat chested woman
enters the wrong rest room

grey day---
the mailman passes me
with no "have a nice day"

Summer---
a tree's luscious green
covers the walk signal

overcast morning
the smell of steaming rice---
Summer

late night---
fireflies rise up
in the cemetery

brilliant blue sky---
I finally washed
my windows

hurricane season started---
my neighbor buys
a hybrid car

a cool breeze---
finally
she says something

an ice cream truck
stands on Fifth Avenue---
it tastes the same

listening to a sermon
on Saturday night---
no mention of hell

the UN tower---
all the windows
have the same color

Memorial Day---
starts Iraq's
scorching Summer

morning haze---
she's still wearing
her chiffon nightgown

a baby fly
has not found yet
the kitchen---Spring

Spring dark clouds---
my barber asks
if I want all the grey out

warm Spring night---
her cleavage glistens
under a crescent moon

blue sky---
a cleaning lady takes
the morning train home

sunrise---
the purple buds
in her flat garden

cold and dark Spring day---
a dead squirrel
in a tree pit

morning rush---
the usual
black knights

downpours
on Tax Day---
but for me no refunds

heavy Spring rain---
in a bar the beer
runs like rivers

morning rain---
umbrellas
go to work

wearing a white mask
because of the pollution---
a day moon

Good Friday---
my neighbor prays
in a mosque

gloomy day---
a blind man passes
a blooming cherry tree

warm Spring night---
a setting moon
takes its time

all the snow melted---
she wears her
angora sweater

early March---
new graffiti
shaped like a tulip

a silent movie---
the audience
keeps on talking

morning rush---
light
at the end of the tunnel

foggy day---
I visit
the Turkish baths

a hawk flies high---
traffic crawls
on the highway

the Ides of March---
a cat has passed
nine dogs

morning stillness---
a crow finally
flies away

Fat Tuesday---
an ice cream truck
parks on melting snow

Ash Wednesday---
no line
at the halal food cart

she speaks English
with a Provence accent---
I order a glass of rosé

on a fire hydrant
I tie my shoes---behind me
a dog waits its turn

winter morning---
too many men
wearing grey suits

cold night---I pass the statue
of a man wearing
a winter coat

February First---
a sun ray dances
on her cell phone

extreme cold weather---
the stars shine
more brightly

very cold day---
a stuffed bear
stays under the bed covers

the price of tortillas
goes up---
let them eat ethanol

soft spoken---
her jewelry and music
are heavy metal

blizzard---
too much powdered sugar
even for Valentine Day

gloomy afternoon---
a red haired woman
smiles at me

snacking on
blue corn chips---
moonless night

at a general statue---
a dog salutes
by raising its leg

cold Saturday night---
the barmaid puts sake
in my green tea

beautiful winter dawn---
I ran out of
Jasmine tea

strange faces are out
this saturday night---
the moon

early morning---
last night stardust
is on the lilacs

morning haze---
I keep recounting
how many Santas

morning commute---
the silence
of end of the year stress

overcast morning---
not enough sugar
in the rice pudding

morning rush---
a blonde
with no lipstick

Autumn sunset---
a birthday balloon
rises

Fifth Avenue station---
the sound of hoofs
on the pavement

grey morning---
I check out a new
tanning salon

a bartender
needs more olives---
the bridge lights turn on

a dog patiently
waits for his plate---
Thanksgiving Day

Black Friday---
so many turkeys
at the sales

the harvest is over
I hang the sickle---
crescent moon

Autumn morning---
neighborhood graffiti
has changed colors

hell---
a homeless man
wears a new garbage bag

overcast day---
I look at old pictures
in black and white

my morning train
delayed---a seagull
flies above the tracks

Autumn night---
a homeless man
has a pumpkin

she wears a purple blouse
at sunset---
I order espresso

October last Sunday---
lost an hour
resetting an old clock

sweet bitterness
of a dark chocolate-
winter time

bamboo flute
the scent
of green tea

at the end
of a long learning curve
a helmut of white hair

nearly dusk...
desire
without a name

undressed
by your words
october chill

fall morning 
extra sugar
in my tea

fading bruises
birdsong
in the distance

a weekend
with my lover
...wildflowers

after the rainstorm
another thought
about last night

waiting
for the meds to kick in
full moon

everything
i’m not
winter rain

war vet on the corner
holding a sign
…someone’s son

two pills
past midnight
hidden moon

autumn chill
last night’s mascara
around my eyes

divorce court
red heels
one last time

laundry day
my new jeans
the color of midnight

another classmate...
the pile of flowers
says it all

weekend lover
a bird call
goes unanswered

what was it
you wanted to say
summer drizzle

the price of peaches ...
sunday's talk
with my dad

windowless room
i try
to imagine blossoms

spring morning
one egg left
in the fridge

memory care unit
snowflakes melting
on the window

internet dating
a butterfly flitting
from rose to rose

waiting room
ivy growing
on the outside wall

evening star—
fold upon fold
the quiet blue hills

spring thaw
everything drips
including my nose

autumn chill--
time for a hot bowl
of chili

frozen pond--
the moon trapped
in a crack

November night--
the smell of burning leaves
and marshmallows

high summer--
the sounds and smells
of a traveling fair

gentle breaths--
the window's
frost etchings

quiet lake--
the only sound
a jumping fish

meteor shower--
in the cold our gasps
become visible

failing light--
the ash tree
heavy with  birds

fall equinox--
another day
in the  90's

evening   news--
the burden of  snow
on my son's   balcony

under the snowpack
the garden  buddha
still keeps his smile

uninvited guest--
a fly zips  through
the opened door

stoplight
each of us tapping
to our own beat

Mass over--
the rush to be first
out of the lot

5am--
bird songs lost
in air conditioner noise

at the feeder
more birds than room
the smell of snow

midwinter vanished
in a bite of homemade
strawberry preserves

while washing spinach
how nice to find
a haiku there

covid 19
...pish-the-bed puffbaws
bidin a braith

covid 19
...dandelion puffballs
awaiting a breath 

fir a new granbairn
she lichts a caunle
...peerie lowe souchin

for a new grandchild
she lights a candle
...tiny flame breathing 

rin-ower pheasie
...tasht
wattergaw

run-over pheasant
...crushed
rainbow 

maitin granfaither -
the wye
he yince maitit me

feeding grandfather -
the way
he once fed me 

dudoon
aye wairmth
in her rosary beads

sundow
still warmth
in her rosary beads

a singul leaf
reelin doon
...day o the yirdin

a single leaf
spiralling down
...day of the funeral 

thayr bairn's
hame-wrocht mobile:
streeng'n yill cans

their baby's
home-made mobile:
string and beer cans 

it the bus-stap:
a pish-the-bed seed baw
bides fir a souch

at the bus-stop:
a dandelion seed ball
waits for a breeze 

faimily tae bide -
the hoose
fou o peerie claes

family to stay -
the house
full of tiny clothes 

derelict site  -
a buddleia
...such sweetness from ruins

ootby the maisic chaumer
twa youthie maws
...ettlin tae git in tuin

outside the music room
two young gulls
...trying to get in tune 

suddent
the pish-the-bed batch...
thair stobbie herrcuts

suddenly
the dandelion gang...
their spiky haircuts 

dumpin's baw
heich the err
...day o an eclipse

kicking his ball
high in the air
...day of an eclipse 

clear vause o roses -
deep in the watter
muckle breers

clear vase of roses -
deep in the water
magnified thorns 

picnic -
butterflies and
flies in the butter 

hern an me -
oor harns
collin ilk ither

heron and I -
our brains
shaping each other

tree less corners
the tall shadows
of beer bottles

Halloween night
ghosts and goblins
watch the rain

desert wind
the potter's fingerprints
on an ancient shard

together
we watch the eclipse
far apart

faded asters
the cortege pauses at her gate
moves on

biopsy
just a cyst - this time
a break in the clouds

plastic flowers
placed beside the highway
memory fades

mud puddles
leaving behind
a high heel

heavy snow
the smell of hot soup
under a neon cross

dead cat...
open-mouthed
to the pouring rain

sleeper train
the muted glow
of unknown cities

Fragrant spring blossom
children play outside until
there is no more light.

howling wind
the nurse increases
mum’s morphine

planetarium 
my child’s grip
starts to loosen 

I dig a hole
for the stillborn kitten . . .
winter stars

cold starry night -
from the forest edge the sound
of animal kill

herd immunity --
wild turkeys crossing
a busy highway

24-hour news --
I can't stop looking
at the fire 

pandemic life --
dandelion seeds
in the air

travel ban
a flock of geese
overhead 

retirement plans
beach sand blowing
in the wind

self-quarantining
without fanfare
backyard Buddha

reluctant to fly away
the egret
and I

writer's block --
a ferry
stalled at the dock

industrial waste --
an otherwise great
guitar solo 

northerly wind --
the shivering cord
of a flagpole

America first --
a line forms
for the taco truck

harvest moon --
a little boy's
first haircut

wolf moon --
the dog sniffs
every footprint

longest night --
we finish our wine
too quickly

high tide --
the smell of weed
by the docks

waning moon --
my mother pretends
to know who I am

house for sale --
dismantling
the wheelchair ramp

my retirement plan --
tree pollen
floating in the wind

new moon --
the final
mortgage payment

flower moon --
last stop
of the bachelorette party

a discolored wall
where the mirror
used to be

double shift --
the cocktail waitress serves
a whiskey sour

end of summer --
one last bottle
of wine

empty subway station --
the accordion music pauses
between trains

sad news --
opening the windows
to let the chill out

far from Wall Street
a cormorant
dives

lingering clouds --
a stock market
sell-off 

open house --
the rushed paint strokes
of the guest room

prairie winter --
clouds approach
the broken fence

blizzard warning --
wishing I hadn't seen
that black cat

unripe pomegranates --
all that's left
between us

morning thunder --
the garbage man's
early start

Day of the Dead --
my unshaved face
in the mirror

in the ruins
of a beach house
wild orchids bloom

equinox -- 
we split
the last beer

despite all my worry
the fragrance
of honeysuckle

gibbous moon --
all that's left
of summer

end of summer --
watching the Dow
fall

late summer chill --
a young man's
obituary

lightning --
her nightgown
comes off

sturgeon moon --
an ancient
burial site

heat wave --
she stops adjusting
her shoulder strap 

windless night --
a slow dance
of fireflies

approaching storm --
children playing
with matches

a final date --
mingling their ashes
in the lake

missing in action
the hollow eyes
of a veteran 

spring sunshine --
another freckle
to kiss

dogwood blossoms --
an ultrasound
of my newest grandson

morning fog --
a second cup
of bad coffee

Good Friday --
dandelion seeds
in the wind

Good Friday --
an unexpected
phone call

a long conversation
about Mom --
slow soaking rain

over leftovers
an argument about
the causes of war

news of her death —
winter moon descending
beyond the trees

restless night --
footprints
on the moon

a break in the fog --
my daughter's
new address

death of a dictator --
the ebb and flow
of the sea

election eve --
driving home
in the dark

cactus flower --
I didn't realize
she knew my name

Day of the Dead --
walking into
a strong perfume 

defying
the autumn gloom --
red maple

in the hollow stump
of the old tree
wild poppies bloom

deep autumn --
a row
of empty beach houses

hurricane watch --
the tall tree's shadow
over our house

hunter's moon --
she asks if I've found
what I needed

migrating geese --
no one asks them
where they're from

troubled sleep --
sparks
from a high-tension wire

summer haze --
someone murmurs
"Alzheimer's"

harvest moon --
her updated
relationship status 

summer twilight --
the instructions
for my ashes

blood-tinted soil
where the sugar plantation
used to be

crowded train --
the bright red glare
of her lipstick

hay moon --
the farmer's daughter
in heels

the enlightened man
wearing lipstick
on his collar

starless night --
the deep croak
of a bullfrog

thunderstorm --
a late-night
visitor

overcast night --
the mouse trap
snaps

summer rain --
the garden gnome's
weary smile

threatening sky --
the hum
of a power line

roadside puddle
a street dog licks
the winter moon

impenetrable haze --
the other side
of the bridge

biker couple
covering their tattoos
with sunscreen

ocean view --
the old dog
on a leash

empty ferris wheel --
the last time
we kissed

crossing the border
without a passport --
great blue heron

strawberry moon --
the ribbon
in my granddaughter's hair

another meeting
swallowing
my cold coffee

in the rubble
of my childhood home
wild flowers

honoring those who've served
by wearing camouflage
in front of the TV

guarding
the suburban lawn
a smiling Buddha

gibbous moon --
her unfinished
tattoo

Delta blues --
a bead of sweat
on my beer bottle

stationary front --
the same haiku
I wrote yesterday

invisible on radar
the lingering mist
between us

thunder clouds --
he tells me how many days
he's been sober

pink moon --
a taste
of what comes next

after the rain
my mother forgets
who I am

crowded cafe --
the barrista misspells
my name

from a windowless room
the ocean view
on my screensaver

starless night --
my favorite pub loses
its liquor license

cold spring rain --
where I buried
the puppies

black ice --
the doctor would like
to run more tests

new moon --
the darkness
within

a mother's vigil --
the rhythm
of the ventilator 

mezcal morning --
the church bells
out of sync

new construction --
chopping down
my childhood

over Monday coffee
the conversation shifts to
"The Walking Dead"

end of the weekend --
I finished that beer
too quickly

my retirement plan
the ripples
in a mud puddle

under candlelight
she tells me
about her scars

"spring sleet"
he hisses
through clenched teeth

city lights --
the glitter
of broken glass

St. Patrick's Day --
the first green buds
on the old tree

writer's block --
heating up
the leftovers

starless night --
I finish the wine
too quickly

melting snow --
the nurse searches
for a pulse

a neat pile
of all your letters
before I burn them

crickets
in imperfect
harmony

spring cleaning --
cropping her out
of a photograph

news of his relapse --
how slowly
the rain falls

moonless night --
apologies made
in the passive voice

early bird special --
at least fifty
shades of grey 

snow flurries --
trying to remember
when I first turned gray

secluded highway --
we turn
the radio off 

winter rain --
a birthday reminder
for a dead friend

stopping
for the fire truck
cicadas

waiting for the train
a huddled mass
of smartphones 

zazen—
that fly battering itself
against the sunny window

morning meditation -- 
a steaming
manhole cover

winter rain --
the dog and I
exchange sighs

asleep at the wheel
the ghost cabbie
of my nightmares

gibbous moon --
she's not telling
the whole truth

two-hour meeting --
shadows creep
across the table

frost on the windshield --
I remember how much
I drank last night

budget cuts --
a crescent moon
on the horizon

Ash Wednesday --
a dusting
of snow

police sirens --
another night
without the moon

final approach -
she pencils in
her eyebrows

melting snow -
an unfinished
haiku

the Dow falls -
rose petals
in the wind

between doses
of cough medicine
silence

snow flurries -
my unborn grandchild's
perfect fingers

stuck behind
a schoolbus -
thunderclouds

crescent moon -
leaning her head
against my shoulder

icy conditions -
another slide
on Wall Street

converting to condos
the nightclub
where we met

in a dark place
quietly fermenting
homebrew

new moon -
time to lose
the beard

emptying the wine bottle -
another conversation
about Mom

my stock portfolio -
puddles filled
with winter rain

occupying Wall Street
the ghosts
of my retirement dreams

that recurring dream
in which I pull the fire alarm
and run

epiphany -
Jesus and Mary
stopped at the border

epiphany -
the gift of a dead mouse
at the door

not softened
by sepia tones
images of war

first thaw -
someone should have warned
the daffodils

snow turns to rain -
wondering when
it all went wrong

war -
fathers
burying sons

domestic terrorism --
winter moths
at the door

harvest moon --
grass gone to seed
on the tennis court

huddled smokers --
another conversation
about The Cloud

hazard lights
through raindrops
October leaves

cold stethoscope --
I lie to the doctor
about my drinking

starless night --
I can't believe
the weekend is over

after the rain
a puddle filled
with stars

abandoned school --
a soft breeze ripples
through the weeds

after the conference
pigeons feasting
on crumbs

still pond --
a dragonfly lands
on the moon

severe thunderstorm warning --
a murder
of crows 

daylight fades --
my mother asks
the same question twice

ghost town -- 
a rooster crows
for no reason at all

end of the road --
three big dogs
with nothing to do

an oasis
in the Bible Belt --
adult book store 

after the storm
the streets
have no names

early autumn --
the golden highlights
in her green hair

mixed precipitation --
a flat finish
on Wall Street

a long meeting --
permanent marker
on the erasable whiteboard

sipping absinthe
the impressionist painting
of night

urban incense --
a steaming
manhole cover

sailing the seas
of my subconscious --
her fishnet stockings

wolf moon --
suddenly I see her
in a different light

laundry day --
the search
for matching socks

Christmas leftovers --
my mother forgets
why she called

the sudden chill--
a fresh layer of ice
on the fire escape

bad beer --
the stock market
goes flat

mixed precipitation --
she tells me I look good
for my age

enlightment --
a police car
on fire

Thanksgiving night --
an empty parking lot
at the nursing home

Thanksgiving rain --
the unblinking eyes
of a shelter dog

Thanksgiving rain --
the dog
no one wanted

alone at the bar
the missing letters
in a neon light

new moon --
the doctor schedules
a biopsy

morning fog --
an empty
tequila bottle

asleep
on the subway floor
the unknown soldier

Veteran's Day --
the old dog's
gray muzzle

tornado watch --
now available
in HD

my daughter's birthday --
a child's balloon
above the clouds

spring mist --
my granddaughter cries
in my arms

Patriot's Day --
a homeless veteran's
weathered sign

dusk --
that song
still makes me cry

Holy Week --
three bare trees
against a gray sky

morning mist --
the fragrance
of strong coffee

bitter wine --
time for that conversation
about Mom

the old oak tree
where we first kissed
marked with an "X"

new photos
of my granddaughter --
crocuses in bloom

twilight --
she tells me she has
a spare toothbrush

crescent moon --
the fullness
of her hips

still pond --
koi swim
through the sky

tempest in a teapot --
my mother
serves me decaf

equinox --
an 18-wheeler crossing
the double yellow line

equinox --
splitting
the last of the wine

still wandering
the empty corridor --
cheap perfume

winter storm watch --
beware of falling
stock prices

empty terminal --
headline news
for ghosts

wolf moon --
the sway
of her hips

mid-winter thaw --
an unscratched
lottery ticket

crowded train --
a clash
of perfumes 

new moon -- 
forgetting
old acquaintances

the blank page
learning nothing
from the pine

abandoned playground --
the graffiti
fades 

first date --
trying not to talk
to her cleavage

crescent moon --
the dog sleeps
with one eye open

dusting off
the Christmas lights --
gibbous moon

cold coffee --
the crunch of a Christmas ball
under foot

her lips
beckoning mine --
highway billboard

snow flurries --
my unborn granddaughter's
heartbeat

darkening skies --
the final hours
of the weekend 

the moon
and my wine glass
half full

town landfill --
old timers
arguing politics

stock market report --
a stalled car
in the intersection

Day of the Dead --
all the leftover
Halloween candy 

hunter's moon --
searching
for my keys

cold night --
I become
the dog's pillow

first snow --
an almost
perfect shave

fair-weather clouds --
an ultrasound
of my next grandchild

a true wonder of the world --
how she fills
her Grand Canyon t-shirt

unable to sleep
unable to stay awake --
a distant ocean

my rising blood pressure -
a vapor trail
in the sky

October dusk --
wishing I could see
just one more firefly

hot city night --
the sizzle
of a broken sub-woofer

her long legs ...
I walk right into
a spider web

loosening
the top button of her blouse
with my eyes

snow turns to rain --
the afterglow
of the plow lights

snow day --
more white than I remember
in my beard

footprints in the snow
words
I can't take back

New London winter --
the gleam of pleasure boats
wrapped in plastic

winter chill -
shredded plastic
in a barbed wire fence

lazy midtown morning -
another layer of paint
on the rusty fire escape 

lazy midtown morning -
do those green copper gargoyles
feel the cold? 

first of December -
the darkness
before dawn

first of December -
police tape clinging
to a burned-out barn

winter clouds -
my gray hair
grayer

December rain -
the long night
longer

a break in the clouds --
my third cup of coffee
grows cold

clear skies --
a solitary crow
on a high-voltage wire

November dusk --
do the streetlights know
how early it is?

November dusk --
the warmth
of a familiar song

overcast --
just one more game
of solitaire

more rain --
a mouse trapped
between walls

new moon --
an abandoned car
on lover's lane

new moon --
a missing
mouse trap 

new moon --
the mouse in the ceiling
awakens

autumn equinox --
my baseball glove
right where I left it

sudden chill --
an empty bird feeder
outside the nursing home

waning moon --
a hand-printed sign reads:
"lost dog"

heat wave --
the dog moves slowly
from shadow to shadow

restless night --
a tree frog
in and out of tune 

morning haze --
one light rinse of the coffee cup
is good enough

Memorial Day --
stars obscured
by distant smoke

red dragonfly --
my newest granddaughter's
tiny fingers

June cold snap
the next-door neighbor's
house for sale

after the rain
a light on in the basement
of an empty house

finally Friday --
the dog so attentive
around the grill

cold April rain --
I no longer remember
your name

cold April rain --
my daughter's birthday
on another continent

going out of business — 
the naked mannequin’s 
Mardi Gras beads

caffeine buzz --
snow in the forecast
somewhere else

moonless night --
an ambulance speeds by
with its lights out

moonless night --
an empty can
of whipped cream

moonless night --
pulling the dog
from shadow to shadow

too wired to sleep
too tired to dream
winter wind

crowded train --
her perfect lips
pierced

autumn rain --
the warmth of one too many
glasses of wine 

wolf moon --
the dog
won’t come in

blue moon --
I wonder where my children
are tonight ?

bitter cold —
even the Christmas lights
seem to shiver

December rain —
a phone call
from my son

December rain —
a deer tail
and then nothing

April overcast --
my son turns twenty
in Iraq

March --
a broken umbrella
crosses the street

deep winter --
a stray dog sniffs
an empty coffee cup

late train --
all the highlighted passages
in his bible

one week before Christmas
a three-legged dog
sniffs the trash

crowded train --
the drunk offers me his seat
for five dollars

the trainyard at dawn --
new graffiti
on an old caboose

equinox --
two limes
in my margarita

Veteran's Day --
a frightened dog
at the animal shelter

twilight --
I direct a stranger
to the wrong train

Valentine's Day --
awakened by a kiss
from the dog

burning leaves --
Kerry concedes
the election

rumors of war --
removing decorations
from the Christmas tree

dirty snow
the conductor flirts
with school girls

troubled sleep --
steam rises
from a storm sewer

my daughter's 18th birthday --
the warming sunshine
in her hair

Wall Street watch --
the unnerving plunge
of her neckline

stood up
by a part-time lover --
shooting star

orthopedist's office --
all paintings tilted
slightly off center

afghan invasion --
the dog
on my side of the bed

approaching storm --
my twelve year-old's fascination
with war

Autumn colors --
the receptionist's
bright red hair

first frost --
I trim
my graying beard

three shades too dark
the lipstick
on his collar

a familar name
on the victims list --
my coffee grows cold

between
silent construction cranes
the Milky Way

the end of summer --
my light beer
suddenly darker

my daughter starts college --
another empty
pint of beer

first day of vacation --
shooting star
on a moonless night

train running late
an ant climbs
the station wall

planning our trip
lightning flashes
beyond the horizon

dangerous lightning --
she watches me
watching her

unhooking her bra
the moon peeks
over the treetops

distant thunder --
a shower of pollen
falls from the trees

the haze lifts --
she tosses her hair
over her shoulder

my daughter's graduation
tightening the knot
on my necktie

crowded train station --
the tap tap thump
of a blind man's cane

staring at me
from the bathroom mirror
an age spot

my son's twelfth birthday
a rabbit hops
across the busy street

sunny spring day
walking through a cloud
of perfume

the train arrives
one more sip
from an empty cup of coffee

wedding night
the parents of the bride
in separate beds

Spring snow --
an expecting mother rests
her hands on her belly

energy crisis --
long line
at the coffee shop

Ash Wednesday --
the priest
lights a cigarette

where dirty snow
meets road salt
a dozen roses

snow mixes with rain --
my mother keeps calling me
by my brother's name

away on business --
the restless cat
on your side of the bed

lunch hour --
the automatic teller machine
eats my card

staring at her neckline
the deep plunge
of the NASDAQ

the NASDAQ falls --
moss clings
to a weathered tombstone

troubled sleep --
somewhere in the darkness
an unlocked door

commuter daydream --
I follow the slit in her skirt
into oncoming trafic

her well-tanned shoulders
wrapped in a sweater --
the end of summer

asleep on the train
the gentle rise and fall
of her breasts

first date --
under the streetlight
our shadows hold hands

tent revival
the preacher's wife
in a miracle bra

Mass Pike trafic
the bright red glare
of her lipstick

reflecting
the graffiti landscape
Soho rain

my son's eleventh birthday --
miles of cold gray rain
between us

in the produce aisle
a voluptuous woman
compares melons

market forecast:
record warmth
followed by rain

bitterly cold
a box of old love letters
hidden in the attic

after four hours of sleep
light snow fills
an empty cup

children dancing
circles in the rain-
autumn leaves

falling leaves-
unpacking winter clothes
from cedar trunks

summer heat
my air conditioner
sweating

summer's end-
one haiku becomes
another

Twin Towers-
where once two shadows
now only sun

rice seedlings-
each step deeper
in the mud

temple courtyard
through the morning fog
peach blossoms

abandoned house --
children picking mangoes
in the yard

power outage
the distant sound
of a saxophone

late summer
an inchworm
less than an inch

talk of dying
the mention of ranch land
I have never seen

spring morning
flies return
to a crab carcass

migrating swallows
she tells me
she'll pray for me

letter from overseas
a call from southward geese
penetrates the thicket

spring mist
the tree I take shelter under
planted in remembrance

first raindrops
the freight train I passed
two states ago

hard winter ground -
we argue about
the constellations

walking to work -
the blossoms on my street
late this year

snow outside
a small bowl
of imported oranges

Veterans' cemetery--
a wide expanse of lawn
beyond the graves.

A pear;
A worm's hole leaves
a bitter taste.

tin ceiling
grandma talks of a world
before the war

anniversary
an old dress on the line
fills with wind

diagnosis day
coffee rings left
on the counter

lighting a candle 
with a candle
another night of snow

freezing rain
the cafe crooner slips
out of tune 

the smell
before the sound of it
evening rain

thunderheads
hanging on the horizon
a red tailed hawk

reading obituaries
the here and there
of fireflies 

the parking lot
down to one puddle
of moon 

before the storm
the thunder
of lawnmowers

in and out
of the rusted shed
moonshine

dusk
the old gate sags
into its shadow

all day rain
the refrigerator’s
ommmmm

jumping ice cubes
all over the floor
... a hair in my whiskey

new freedom
blue dress now
a table cloth

blowing bubbles
my breath floats away
in different sizes

three feet distance
needed for reading my ku
without glasses

wiping the full moon
from a wet glossy table
with my bare hand

flea market -
a sitting buddha
on his left side

early winter...
he chooses to read
old soup recipes

english newspaper
a lot of starving people
between fish & chips

while dusting buddha's mouth
is smile disappeared
for a few seconds

autumn storm
lightning flashes
on buddah's belly

new cracks
in an old mirror
I just noticed

rain scented air
a thousand frogs
croaking

bone dust
after cremation
the winter sky

behind the cafe
the sound of children--
or crows 

on the clothesline
his and her shirts
side by side again

between the mist
and the edge of the forest
a white buffalo

harvest moon
rose garden
has lost its colors 

eerie moonlight
graveyard
of the rusted automobiles

indian summer
first light
finds the tallest tree

drought
no clouds
in the bird bath

tea party over
lipstick 
smiles remain

after the cloudburst
birdbath full
of sky again

underside
of the flower pot
one hundred legs

coffee season
singing
from the trees

no moisture
mother earths skin
has cracked

typing small i
only because morning coffee
occupies my other hand...

In the space-between
trees and mist
a white buffalo

drumming
heartbeat
in the mist

how bright the years in
the Georgian palace brickwork
this lukewarm winter

smoke and mirrors
another veil of cloud
across the moon

january hail --
a scattering
of early lambs

deep winter
a new kind of rain
rings my bell

monthly meeting
all the agenda O's
coloured in

motorway verge
frost has picked
last year's apples

black friday
dip-dyed desperation
gusting down the mall

autumn gale
a month's mortgage payments
scatter the lawn 

Christmas Day
a present of rain
on the pony's back

november blossom --
a brightness to find
what might have been lost

deep autumn
there's wind enough to winnow
wild rice

shortening days ...
the petals fall
into dust

leaver's day
a wind too strong
for butterflies

endless rain
christmas lights
bleed in a puddle

gibbous moon
the smell of woodsmoke fills
a wait for rain

cider farm
a sweetness
on the breeze

neon veil
a neighbour's lights
outshine the moon

yew harvest
deep hues fill
a redwing's hunger

autumn gale
the sunflowers turn
their seedy cheeks

she's leaving home
a pair of shoes
that no longer fit

indian summer
it's what the sunflowers
waited for

glinting on
a retirement card
autumn rain

autumn mist
my neighbour asks me
what I do

straw truck delivery
someone else's summer
strewn down our lane

autumn rain
my socks dry on
the pc tower

autumn equinox
i let the last fly
go free

after rain
honeysuckle
awake again

summit cairn
a raven's call
lost to the wind

pathless moor
the cackle of grouse
hidden by mist

New Year's Day
a deer hesitates
in the headlights

dentist's chair
counting dead flies
in the striplights

the morning after
oak leaves cradle
last night's hail

hung in a cobweb
between gorse flowers
christmas rain

perseid showers
only rain in
the night garden

summer longing
a dampness in the washing
left out overnight

night after night
the farm dog forgets
he knows me of old

last day of term
my daughter breaks
the uniform code

spring wind
tachograph discs
turn down a backroad 

steam railway
blackthorn blossom
follows the tracks

all fool's day
behaving like
a teenager again

day after day
on the road to work
a single magpie

spring sunshine
the jogger's stride
a little longer

my daughter says
i resemble a drunk
winter rain

St David's Day
a mower cuts the green
green grass of home 

efficiency seminar
a reek of cheap fat
lingers in the hall

referendum day
a few pale shoots
after the frost

roadside tribute
last year's leaves
cover a fox

commuter traffic
no light to stop
a starling flock 

february gale
the empty bird feeder
taps my office window

i arrange my tie
to hide a stain
misty hollow

supermarket sign
the melancholia magnified
by drizzle

february dawn
the rhubarb rises
a deeper red

afternoon fog
the point of the meeting
getting lost

a red cloud
on the horizon
robin's song

valentine's day
a patch of snow
the sun hasn't found

we race dry leaves
down the road home
the north wind and me 

her plastic lifelines
in harsh hospital light -
even fresh flowers, fade

a dog stares
his cataract eyes
the colour of moons

five star hotel -
a cockroach scurries
pool-side

his old hands
working the soil -
smell of brewed tea

church ruins
the grace
of a butterfly

pleasantly drunk
in the orchard
a flock of waxwings

Memorial Day
a layer of dust
covers his urn

six years
presents under the tree
still wrapped

hawk's hover -
the view of calm seas
through a gunport

at the memorial
a hawk's cry
scatters her ashes

forty-six years
writing my name
yellow in snow

more than the shining sun
in the morning
I want her

nothing more tiring
than being tired of sleeping alone
warm coffee

crushed mosquito
red line on the floor
subway in may

spring wind
on my neck
cooler than your breath

parting . . .
the clatter of train tracks
into dark

fading bougainvillea
 in the night sky . . .
    mars!

splatting drops . . .
  moments ago they held
      a rainbow

after the long wait . . .
  two unattended dove eggs
      in summer rain

from the armoire,
scent of passion in a candle
yet to be burned

wood flute music
through an open window
the crow's rasp

mothers' day
I let the phone ring longer
for her

scenting two pages
of the Webster's Unabridged . . .
wild lilac

Valentine's dinner--
nothing on the menu
suits him

stroke of  . . .
his snoring punctuated
by fireworks

stillness . . .
a few flat stones
beneath the pine

lunch at the cove
the ebb and flow
of their conversation

distant thoughts-
the last ember
cools

computer drone
overtaken by the sound
of pounding rain

heat storm--
a quick breath between flash
and crashing thunder

in the mirror
a much older woman
returns my glance

April shower -
last drop
of green tea

Morning fog -
only the scent of
eucalyptus

morning rush
cup of tea
untouched

summer solstice
I saw a rouge flower
growing.

soft rain
a quiet ambulance
at rush hour

community garden
a fence separates
carrots from carrots

oolong
pekoe
tasting each sound

sudden rain
and then I remember
Earth Day

sliding a white marble
into its matchbox
voodoo moon

almost spring
the florist waters
her sidewalk

evening calm
pot smoke wafts up
from under the bridge

honeymoon
cutting in half
their first melon

window cleaner
the masks we wear
at the office

winter blizzard ..
her psoriasis
shedding skin 

beyond darkened fields,
g ro w i n g with bird-song 
- this tide-line of dawn

pilgrim counts
every second step
stone in shoe

trinitarian glasses
help both speaker and listeners
to see more clearly

approaching rain
the smell of sauerkraut
lingers on the stairs

a slight turbulence
as the cormorant dives
autumn's end

no longer friends
the aftertaste
of imported ale

river eddies
the day you asked
me out 

evening cold
a shell at the end
of a snail trail

migrating cranes
the people we speak of
in the past tense

winter thunder
i let tea leaves
release the tannins

the odds of his
dying before me...
snow mixes with rain

living alone
the quiet ritual
of coffee

heat lightning
something ancient
in a lizard's eye

scudding clouds
a magpie's calls drift
into my headache

dead sparrow
the smell of rain
from somewhere else

evening news
two crows on the rim
of a satellite dish

his burn-scarred hands...
how the winter wind
makes dead leaves fly 

approaching winter
sunlight on the leather
of a pipistrelle's wings

unpicked apples
we promise
to keep in touch 

indian summer
two rows of maize
left standing

flickering street light
from darkness to darkness
the flight of a bat 

a love letter
in mother's handwriting... 
asters gone to seed

first notes
of a busker's clarinet...
summer river

dusty seashell
the words he whispered
in my ear

no sound
from a crow's gaping beak...
sultry afternoon

sultry afternoon
wood pigeons cooing
from the shade

rain-filled river
the things
you kept from me 

drifting fog
an acquaintance
i'd rather not meet

receding thunder
cherry petals line
the storm drain 

heavy snowfall
a hawk on a fence post
almost white

high sun -
his daughter
on his shoulders

ruined stadium -
all that remains
are bird songs

long day -
a warm breeze carries
the smell of the brewery

a wide open bay 
as far as the eye can see 
the herring gull's call

waiting for you~
the changeful rhythm 
of the rain

airport gate ~
the undetected poison
of your words

spring changes...
I clean rust off the latch
of an old desire

spring in the air -
the stone path to the mailbox
well polished

autumn light - 
in the silent glades
me and the gun...

late fall -
the scent of rain
in your hair

watching
the lunar eclipse
a dead rose

autumn leaves--
the harvest moon
fades

sudden hail--
the argument breaks off
mid-sentence

sudden hail--
she tells me to be careful
what I wish for

distant thunder--
I dream I've forgotten
where my parents live

first frost--
the squirrel plants acorns
where we buried the cat

fall equinox--
a black squirrel running
on the power line

mudslide
the last rain of 2005
segues into '06

mirror maze... 
I stand alone 
in the crowd of me

dementia
every meeting is now
our first

just extinguished-
smoke slowly curls
out pumpkin eyes

long evening
a different silence
in each room

Indian summer
my bookmark
a yellow leaf

a shy toddler
the rest home seniors
come to life

my night prayers
the long rumble
of a freight train

snow fury—
the coffeecup still warm
in my hand

winter leaf --
how she cups the pills
in her hand

climbing the walls
of the disused youth club:
flowering hops

mussel-blue skies . . .
the cherry blossom bright
by the brick wall

around the headstone
of one who died at twenty:
wind-puffed primroses

between train tracks
recumbent beer bottles
beset by frost

the line of poplars
blackens a mackerel sky...
February blues

following me
downriver to work:
the pastel moon 

sharp night
a thin plume of smoke
from the fire station

crow after crow
the morning darkens
with biblical rain

honking through the darkness
long before their shapes:
the twilight geese

winter solstice
the street sweeper picks up
a glass half full

at either end
of the twelve-carriage platform:
spring mist

street of cafes:
cherry blossom gusts
across the tables 

hail on the train-
a young woman's leg
straddles her boyfriend's

almost spring
outside the embassy
plaque polishing

for seconds between
flood rains: the sunny colours
of market mangoes

like scattering tacks:
the forecast record rainfall
on the bus's roof 

yellow moon
a glimpse of a porpoise
easing upstream 

the river streaks pell-mell
on either side of Eel Pie Island
two pied wagtails 

the forecast rain...
a queue-jumper gets berated
by everyone

late again-
the lights change
in the evening puddle

shortest day
three geezers paint
the pub's front green

steam train...
just over the wall
a winter-flowering cherry

Manitoba crossing
all their possessions
in a plastic bag

light breeze
the desire of my skin
for touch

Rainy day
Through the stained-glass window
Yellow jasmine

arthritis -
another glass of wine
in the left hand

Marmalade
on the birthday card -
signed Baby

shortest day--
her countdown to christmas
quickens

dusk breeze
another birthday spent
viewing others

bamboo flute
mournful notes flying
to an absent moon

still smiling
water beads and drips
off Buddha's nose

forest silence. . .
the cool green glow of lichen
wet with sunlit steam

old village. . .
mosquitos enough
for everyone

sweeping leaves. . .
her lovesong interupted
by a sigh

Infinite white -
a solitary tree
supporting the sky

rush hour -
one leaf's journey
to the ground

autumn trail
the smell of something wild
lingers

in my basket
a flurry of seed fluff
windy morning

afternoon sun
my shadow reaches
a bottle of red

winter dusk
five geese and i
heading home

a tiny bird
cold in my hands
night wind

moving day
my shadow by the pond
one last time

gray morning
the sound of
a red canoe

fall afternoon . .
pockets full of seeds
and dreams

river rat
the shadow within
an owl’s voice

tropical wind
orange butterfly
and i

my breath
on the phone’s screen
hurricane watch

autumn’s end
a bottle of wine
shared with a bee

a moth
in candle wax
early winter

after the storm
mountains return
a bit softer

finding her place
between black and white
the young eagle

in the fog
a mountain echoes
blackbird at dawn

afternoon heat
the faraway sea
in a gull’s cry

briefly
the day pauses
first butterfly

another button
lost along the way
lifting fog

the owl
i hear but never see
november dusk

for a moment
i am the heron
first light

cinnamon tea
drinking the scent
of dawn

rush hour
our echoes meet
in the stairwell

tip of the storm
thunder fills the sky
with crows 

summer rain
i leave the dishes
for later

memorial day
shadows in formation
among headstones

dormer window
the wasp i couldn't save
gathers dust

jasmine
tasting the sound
of my tea

his dust soft
on my fingers
the dead moth

snuffing the flame
the quiet room
quieter

the quiet
of making soup
winter rain

dark winter day
learning from doves
when dusk comes

holiday traffic
watching mountains grow
in the distance

me
and the mountain 
winter solstice

drinking white
instead of red
night without stars

fresh market
the age of the hand
buying apples

a hawk slips
between the colors
river twilight

waiting for rain
a year is ending
in the woods

river twilight
a tiny crab touches
every shadow

calmed
by the riverbank
drifting wood

sunrise
and flowers blooming
on the table 

hunting season
the maple's
blood red

chainsaw
hearing the river flow
afterward

sunday morning
the jasmine climbs
a cloud higher

valley wedding
the scent of gun smoke
coming uphill

nobody's tree
on the highest branch
the perfect apples

moon silence
the sound of a mouse
comes between us

another flood
a different voice
in the bayou

on his third try
the fish hawk wins
summer games

only a fish
nibbling a lily pad
morning fog

dry thunder
on the tip of my tongue
the scent of rain

the sound of heat
everything is
cicadas

as still as midnight
hanging in the moss
the dying moth 

passing storm
bits of sky settle
in the treetops

a fish breaks
the river's calm
heat haze

lost in thought
the sound of wavelets 
at the edges

pond of dust
a butterfly's quest
for a flower

troubled times
the grace of sunset
on a summer day

another tragedy . . 
evening curls quietly
in the pond

summer firelight
the memory of a dog
nuzzles my hand

for a moment
the heat is so cold
deep south

spent candle
reading the last page
by first light

restless dreams
but there you are
morning sky

seed catalog
the colours of
a winter daydream

sacred ground
a bumblebee tastes
every poppy

morning fog
only the duck's cry
passes overhead

just after midnight
sounds become heartbeats
coyote song

running home
an empty mind
full of jasmine

frog by frog
the marsh erupts
with dusk

after the cranes
the sky refills
with silence

prairie afternoon
the grassy taste
of every breath

outgoing tide
what sand remembers
of night

forest trail
my thoughts meander
the fragrances 

just where
creek becomes river
the rain begins

on the edge
of almost too far
crushed chili pepper

picket fence
i bury my cat
on the sunny side

all the quiet
gone from the pond
first bullfrog

between sunrise
and my bed
an owl flies home

cabin walls 
feeling my way through
a wilderness night

against my skin
the roughness of firewood
hoar frost

twilight
a cricket's 
sudden silence

river fog
stretching to sunrise
the voices of ducks

abandoned house
a windowsill heavy
with cactus bones

a dog howls
the river darker . . 
one last beer

just west of dawn
an earful of geese
heading south

the grey sound
of a boat's emptiness
cold dawn rain

on the morning side
of the river's end
rising star

puddles of sky
a child's first step
in the clouds

growth rings
a child sings her way
around a tree

my missing pen
the cat pretends sleep
on a winter's eve

unknowns
waiting for the wind
to cry again

sunday eve
the blues moan softly
across the pond

storm clouds
billowing in the wind
a stranger's coat

deep canyon
the grand voice
of a tiny wren

desert night
a constellation of tents
glows yellow

smoke on the wind
midnight's every breath
tastes of fire

grey autumn day
knowing when it's time
in my bones

where trees bloom
with egrets at dusk
the quiet sky

at the deep end
of a winter day
birdsong

bark beetles
in the Ponderosa pine
these gnawing doubts

a famished mallard
has emigrated
to the city zoo

blackout --
how bright Mars shines
this summer night!

skyscraper
a window-washer squeegees
the thunderhead

insomnia
the mouse
has it too

afternoon rain-
a neighbor opening her curtains
too

in the cathedral
kneeling
photographer 

as soon as the sun
lights up the busse's window
this mosquito get worked up

hardly half
the moon upright
clear november sky

leaves stir
on the pavement
full moon soon

through Caroline street
with four artichokes -
dripping nose

sleeping
beside the gold fish -
november full moon 

High tide
oil reaching
new heights

End of the year
sweeping out flies
from the balcony

Full moon night -
the shape of the mannequins' breasts
in the shop-window

New-York September
the one-way sign points towards
the billowing cloud

gardens' gates
closed on
to the waters 

nobody sees
the red persimmons in the
abandoned garden 

hurry up
to cross the trail
reckless snail !

Twilight -
fireflies lighting up
the old oak.

Melanoma -
the warrior's last
combat zone.

Third winter
without you -
the howling wind.

little masks on ...
the ice-cream truck
only blocks away

alone together
another glass of wine
the color of bruises 

quarantined
laughter of newlyweds
next door

midnight...
tulips in a water glass
touching

eyes red
nostrils puffing smoke
all night poker

frigid night
the chimney belches heat
from his love letters

garden party
a sound crew checks
the microphone

afternoon break — 
the hooker savors a hotdog 
before the evening rush

steamy sex
in the church parking lot --
amazing Grace

hey, the red bikini
coming out of the water
-- eleven o'clock 

in the attic
grandpa's rabbit's foot
and Purple Heart 

grandma’s brassiere
on the clothesline
perky in the breeze

morning coffee -
familiar pleasure
in each other's eye

at the club
line dancing outside
the ladies room 

house renovation -
the magic mushrooms
he hid 25 years ago

midnight ...
a cricket's falsetto
from the lingerie drawer

the last dance -
her cheap perfume
don't matter

farm stand ...
he squeezes the melons
she checks the zucchini

almost home
pausing by the pond
to reflect

day's end --
a cloud of fireflies
in the field

autumn chill . . .
the distant whistle
of the evening train

the earth softened ...
we planted tulips
when he loved me

winter rain --
one flowered umbrella
at the funeral

the coastal road...
spinnakers fill
with sunset

he kissed me
on the fourth of july
fireworks!!

old teahouse --
a swear word from
the green parrot

good news
the headlines blurred
in morning rain

almost dawn . . .
thoughts of you
when we were us

rainbow flags ...
the haunting sounds
of amazing grace

boyhood friends
home once again --
side by side

husband gone-
his watch ticks it's last tock
at her garage sale 

first date --
wondering if the hat
is too much

afternoon tryst ...
thunder bangs overhead
in the sticky heat

closet renovation--
removing all her clothes
she nails the carpenter

the pastor's daughter
her Sunday dress
the color of bruises

carousel music ?
i still see my brother
on the painted pony

husband at work ?
the mailman knocks
to see the newborn

hail storm
rearranging gravel
in the Zen garden

winter rain --
a flowered umbrella
at the funeral

late night date
sand in her bra
all day long

Sunday brunch
his eyes on the crumb
kissing her cleavage 

morning overcast--
she adds more blush 
to her cheeks

sudden hail--
we sip bitter coffee
rehashing last night

tasting
the freckle on her cleavage
with my eyes

rummage sale --
her husband in the chair
not worth keeping

garage sale --
the flowered couch on which 
I became a woman

arguing downstairs --
she shuts the windows
in her doll house

meditating and 
resplendent in sunlight--
she finally swats the fly

first snow . . .
next to the new calendar
a clean slate

train whistle . . .
palm prints linger
against the glass

wedding anniversary--
my parent's ashes, together
in the moonlight

surprise sneeze
the dandelion blows away
without a wish

seasons stilled--
a red paper poppy
in memoriam

an ancient path
in a sky without time
departing geese

her Sunday dress
the color of bruises
merging

Saturday night
the sound of weeping
seeps from the wall

before dinner...
the spider and a fly
share the sunset

crossroads
the brown core
of an apple

lifting fog
the face of an old friend
on my morning walk

daybreak ...
still sipping bitter coffee
we rehash last night

stars at dusk
a spray of willow buds
by the gate

requiem mass -
flecks of dust drift
in stifling air

tense meeting --
my chewing gum
out of flavor

inhaling spring -
her new breast
two months old

morning rush
he finds a half red kiss
on his coffee cup

never in darkness
ground zero lights the night
New Year's Eve

moonless night -
the bell buoy
talks to itself

morning tea
he cups his hands
around the glass

winter solstice
candle too short
for lingering night

dying afternoon light
the doctor touches her
uncombed hair

snail mail
delivered
in the cold rain

mother and daughter
chess game --
two queens

haiku conference --
lecturer delivers address
in three short sentences

haiku moment --
she writes her number
on his napkin

against the glass -
her palm prints
linger

nude beach
about size
and sighs

on her nape
beads of rain
slowly I follow them down

kitchen encounter ~
tasting the wine
from his lips

summer sidewalk -
drops of rain
steam

water bed
dreams
undulating

thunder
slate sky
crocus peeking

waiting room
a spider hangs
on silence

hospital room
the empty chair   takes
all the sunshine

slipping in
beneath the kitchen door
-first sunlight

paper moon-
falling off almost
this argument of mine

winter rain-
colder than ever
this bowl of rice

Fog on the mountain,
Rain tapping the window pane,
Cup of tea, steaming.

my mother cries
on the other end of the phone
hard rain

mountain chapel
the rain-washed
bones of a sheep

weight that shifts
with the news of a death
storm light 

this slow healing
a blackbird almost invisible 
in the winter dusk

bonfire smoke
we talk about
our disappointments

edge of sleep
turning the pillow
for the cold side

new bookshelves
the poetry my cat finds
in an empty box

croissant crumbs
I try and find
the right words

summer rainstorm
the balloon man
sells umbrellas

sunset
the fisherman's silhouette
edged with light

three sneezes
all that's left
of the snowman

the cat shifts
from sunspot to sunspot
Sunday morning

making soup
my hands could be
my mother's hands

awake too early
trees shrouded in mist
the slow tick of a clock

the damp stain on the wall
only looks like a damp stain -
Monday morning

sunset over the sea
I remember when my mother
ran faster than me

again this year
the wind-sown poppies
flower between stones

empty cafe
the tip jar fills
with rain

my stories
getting better and better
four fingers of scotch

turning seventy
i walk outside to see it
the almost full moon

thanksgiving
my mind wanders
to my dead brother 

crescent moon
just enough light
for this path

warm rain on the pond
my thoughts rise
with the koi

the red maple-
striptease
in the driveway

sunny afternoon
an old man lingers
near the mailbox

mountain stream
   two well placed rocks
the path home

winter clouds
seem to move slower too
in the cold night

it happened
just after the full moon
snow

in the dry grass
frost appears
on the fallen pears

autumn breakfast
the last mosquito's hover
over my campfire

summer's end-
a cool rain slides
down the hollyhocks

summer's end
my hand lingers
in the dry grass

dandelion seeds
  ai r  b  o   r   n
     in a cool breeze

Shivering
in the cold spring air.
  Plum blossoms!

along the road
shape of a willow
conforms to the trucks

obituary
a child's face
smiles from the page

sunset
fisherman rests
river flows on

puddle
from last nights rain
reflects the clouds

the moon fills
the empty tea cup
colder now

a new cross
in the pauper's cemetery 
plastic roses

wild horses 
graze the dry grass
dusting of snow

haze of gnats
around the porch light
milky way 

blood moon rises
over the adobe wall
scent of red chile

plastic bags
trapped on barbed wire 
roadside cross

blackberry brambles
along the road
blues on the radio 

in spite of
bombs and lies
wildflowers

cloudless sky
a red kite 
fades into the distance

mid december 
candles line the window sill 
silent night

applesauce
bubbles on the stove
november morning

corn stubble
rustles in the breeze 
autumn equinox 

graduates
hurry across the stage
dandelion seeds 

Indian ponies
behind barbed wire
gathering clouds 

plastic bag 
trapped in a tree
flight cancelled

paupers' cemetery 
only the clouds
come and go

jars filled with buttons
a journal
the things she left behind

midday heat
puddles tighten
around tadpoles

desert sunrise
following tracks
that follow tracks

frigid night
the homeless girl’s
naked doll

camouflage
makes him invisible
homeless vet

housing projects
the uphill struggle
of a freight train

far from home
an airplane’s trip 
through the Big Dipper

prairie lands
the wind blown edges
of tombstones

night bus
the emptiness 
well lit

dividing the orchard
from the graveyard
old country road

closing time
empty bottles
empty faces

fish market
mackerels gaze
to the heavens

mountain road
the twists and turns
in her story

cloud drifts
the open mouth 
of a water snake

summer’s end
I unpack
the smell of the sea

coffee house date
her choice of decaf
says it all

rain darkens
the small headstone
Mother’s Day

Roosevelt's statue
leading the cherry blossoms - 
Cold April rain. 

sugar for the tea
behind the bowl
a line of ants

fire ant mound
against the flower pot
after the rain

the Big Dipper—
rows of corn connect
farm to farm

autumn chill -
the silence
of the bee hive

cloudy skies -
different shades of shadow
in the cauliflower

tai chi
slicing the morning mist
in quarters

the therapist says nothing
I haven't told myself -
rainless clouds

late night at the airport
the shoe shine man
polishes his own shoes

Buenos Aires tango
at the end of an alley
the Big Dipper

hot summer day
a bowl of picked berries
without sugar

beach house -
unlocking the gate
to the ocean

in and out
of the haiku lesson -
the fragrance of the lilies

open window
the moon's reflection
in the toilet bowl

jogging at dusk
around the neighborhood
the smell of garlic

waiting
for the rice to boil
winter moon

to the headstone
old footsteps frozen
in old snow

Japanese New Year
how small the new moon
in its halo

covered by snow
like the other stones
little Buddha

In his coffin
still
the chin wart

Near dusk
a flash of gold
in the heron's beak

Dead robin -- 
its breast still
burning red.

Buddhist temple-
even here smart phones
do the cha cha cha.

Not so good
for all the fish
Good Friday

St. Patrick's Day
in front of the pub
yellow pouring out of the daffodils

At rest
in the crow's nest
crescent moon

In Morse code
the woodpecker
announces spring

On the Ferris wheel
reaching up
to stroke the moon 

egg moon —
she tries another
pregnancy stick 

drenched in mist
the white-faced heron
shorter

her empty nursery . . .
a sudden breeze lifts
the floral curtains 

yesterday’s funeral
the lingering scent
of mother’s lilies

no water
in the stone fountain . . .
summer haze

phone call
the pup’s squeaky toy
fills the silence

festive season
she turns off the fairy lights
to view the stars

missing child
the distinctive cry
of a fan-tailed pigeon

a vagabond on the bench
covered with a nude girl
on the newspaper

just before dawn
the bright moon
of the computer screen

nightfall
I read the poems
in braille

first snow fall - 
covered with maple leaves
at sunrise

first light
broken blue shell
under the maple

All Saints Day -
in the field only small
pumpkins are left

December dusk -
a solitary pine tree
all lit up

silent phone
only the ring
from his teacup

her fresh flowers -
his fresh grave
valentine's day

valentines -
the mailman's steps
break the ice

rush hour ~
closing the car window
on my hair

rainy Baltimore
umbrella blossoms
in cafe windows

summer solstice
he remembers
to lift the sea

fresh paint
a white moth circles
the bug light

noon—
the egret shifts from stillness
to stillness

white sun ::
an inch of snow
on the lawnmower

harvest moon :
the bigger pumpkin
waits for a face

mill row ::
every door
a different color

harsh snow ::
a corpse
at the dam

election day ::
a butterfly about to settle
on the seesaw

new moon ::
my sister's voice
after all this time

steam billows
from the cooling tower ::
sunrise

morning mist--
a canada goose
asleep on the dock

painting
the dark side of the house--
solstice

midnight--
the changing wind
in the silver maples

the boat crests a wave -
tracing my finger around
an ancient stone

urban geese -
voices extemporise
around a sitar

so cold -
a goose honks its way
across the night sky

sodium light -
a darker world beneath
the puddles

lockerbie -
the long walk from graveyard
into town

silbury hill -
my wife pregnant with our
first child

cold snap -
more than my prints
on the camera

summer haze-
a lone grey wolf pads south
along the highway

thrill of her flute -
twenty three years
of our lips touching

stilled by the stream -
delicate frost flowers
crunch under work boots

evening traffic -
caught in a low moon
the heron's flight

slow-falling snow
the steady hand
of the beggar

June wedding 
cottonwood fluff 
in the veil 

refilling the pill box
rain begins to wash
the blossoms away

August heat
the sizzle
of thick cut bacon

Distant thunder--
the smell of rain
before the storm.

Under the Magnolia
red seeds float away--
November rain.

april noon
out come the sun
and some slugs

street garden
again without leaves
faded graffiti

school bus
finally round the bend
lighting a cigarette

rubber boots
looking for the next
deeper puddle

rain clouds
basking in the light
of an Ikea lamp

Day of the Oscars-
in the Spring sun
I plant onions...

November clouds-
hearing of
my sister's illness...

after the storm
the wind chimes
realigning

riding down the escalator
the scent of snow
on damp coats

cracking walnut--
there might be
another universe

around where the
steppingstone ends off
autumn gone

from an old temple
to an old temple
autumn wind

hundreds of
gentians blooming--
class reunion

typhoon passed--
one watering can
in the sandbox

typhoon passed--
comes the
local circus

red dragonflies
gather around the
blind person

eclipse
the sudden darkness
of her eyes

rivulets
on a foggy window
the cancer's spread

first Christmas
a tiny new stocking
joins the family

moonlight
baby's cheek
at breast

early spring
everything
dripping

quitting time
the smell of rain
in the lobby

waves
slowly cresting towards shore
a faint moon

rainy bridge-
the river flowing
faster

spring breeze-
the balcony's shadows
on my book

winter drizzle
all the passing faces look
into the cafe

dwindling bonfire
a shooting star
near Orion

cold night-
a plane blinks through
Orion's bow

late night at the office
an exit sign floats
next to the moon

dark tree silhouettes
low on the horizon
Orion rises

earthquake night
Tokyoites walking home
the long Friday

back to my hometown
blooming with a sweet scent
mom's oriental lilies

thunder rolling
thinking of my daughter
at the campsite

frozen blueberries
in a bowl of yogurt
by the fireside

traffic jam
melting snow runs
on the windshield

a sunny day
pink haze of the cherry blossoms
over the hill

the old temple
a snake on the stone step
crawling away

a shower of falling sparks
neighbors wish
a good year

after the rain
red carpet
under the persimmon tree

typhoon warning
a farmer on the path
between the rice fields

the farmer lady
a few daffodils in a basket
of white radish

a new year's bonfire
misty rain
on the embers

scent of lilies
orange pollen
on my white sweater

crisp morning air
a bird left his feather
at my window

muggy night
a lizard on the window screen
- motionless

summer night breeze
each wish
on bamboo branches

rain clouds
fragrance of
sweet basil

hunter's moon --
the end of the path
darker

after the guests leave
the lilies
open

grey sky
a monarch butterfly
lost in autumn

frost
on the spent firework casing
new year's day

winter park -
white wings and blue lights
flashing

photo archive
the ice skaters' grins
frozen in time

a wasp
struggling in the web
last apples

clematis climbing
climbing through
the climbing rose

fifteen elephants -
after the storm
the cockerels waking 

anti social behaviour -
all night the wind
kicks a can around

day long weeding
the last dandelion
under my bench 

lazy rain
the solitary blackbird's
dawn chorus

last light
on the allotment
the glow of a fag dimp

crushed shell
in the morning light
the snail's last movements

leading deeper
into the woods
just birdsong

elevator
an ex's scent
hanging

returning from night shift
my neighbour
and his cat

the old barn wall
with every missing brick
a swallows nest

frosty morning
the steam rising from roofs
and my African coffee

recycled
with each bottle
the same resolution

morning mizzle
the screech of a gull
far from the sea 

tinted windows -
through the gap
his fingers wriggle thanks

approaching storm
even the gate
has lost its squeak 

April 2nd
the snow
still lying 

two dog walkers
meet -
two conversations

the broken panes
of the old greenhouse -
still the new shoots

school fair
on the fireman's helmet
a faint smell of smoke

frozen dawn
the runner recovering
in his own steam 

morning rush hour
at the side of the road
wild damsons

Caruso recording -
the gramophone crackle
lights the fires in his eye

the police car slows -
suburban foxes
looting from bins

restless -
across the summer night
siren upon siren

still the spent firework's
cordite smell -
nest of serpents

the name
I didn't want to see -
bitter coffee

airborne again -
the roadkill's
feathers 

road trip
at the end of the argument
a patch of blue

the heather still in bloom -
we take Mum the long way
back to the hospice

chuntering at something
the blackbird on the fence post
- election day

weaving its way
through the rush hour traffic
a white butterfly

bringing only
silence
the storm cloud's weight

roadside memorial -
the faded plastic windmills
still racing

two minutes silence
the shifting light
of a windy day

sea mist...
watching the seal
watching me

looking at
the mirror's reflection
is that really you ?

riverside promenade --
seniors stroll through
falling leaves

Empty eyes
gaze at a poppy field...
journey's end.

a layer of ice
forms on the red sleigh--
february rains

high tide--
feeling the moon's pull
in the waves

january freeze--
koi chase each other
above the television

groundhog day...
sharing a sausage
with friends

autumn seabreeze...
a film of salt forms
on his glasses

grey morning...
a whale on the beach lies
shrouded in fog

beyond blossoms
under the cherry tree...
white snow cover

new widescreen tv:
watching junk in
high definition

winter day's end... 
a bowl of brown rice miso, 
warm in the hands

december warm spell
the neighborhood snowmen
are all plastic

frosty meadow-- 
another dawn
reaches across

between sips... 
reading a book 
about sake

her piano-playing 
comes to an end... 
sounds of autumn hail

first snowfall
the dog's legs
have become shorter

first snowfall...
here is a christmas card
to be mailed, last year

at a desk,
i write
this ku

a bluejay takes flight--
the neighbour's car
needs washing

in the back alley
school-kids puffing away
in the shadow of a chimney

clothes dried on the line–
a spring morning
still in the folds 

between
the swelling sound of crickets
pressing heat

spring showers
I peel a red onion
in running water

river walk
the scent of lilacs
and fresh tar

our new home
neglected in and out
but for white lilacs 

at the lumber mill
only the river noises
and the wind

moss covered church
creeping through the open door
the warmth of May

crackling in the air–
on a frigid afternoon
tea and ginger snaps

ripe wheat fields
listening to the swoosh, swoosh
as rain clouds approach 

dinner at sunset
rainbow bubbles
on the koi pond

neighbors shouting
from the wild grapes
multiple bird calls 

field of dandelions
thousands of wishes
going unused

my umbrella
flipped in the wind–
uncertain days

masons at work
creeping along the stone wall
afternoon fog

death of a friend
more leaves
turning brown

white sheets on the line
slow-motion clouds
in the summer sky

wild roses
the iron trellis
tilts to one side

spring dawn
with the returning geese
my mind takes flight

the old town
even now the rough stones
soak up the warmth

early morning walk
reaching through the mist
for wild berries

a walk to the beach
the asphalt road changes
to sand

morning mist-
we follow the scent
of slow moving cows

bird song
pulling me out of a dream
first day of spring

haiku group
the discussion stops
for a robin

bus stop-
the winter dance
of cold feet

fresh snow
beginning the new year
with a clean slate

party over
the snap crackle of logs
in an empty room

tea in china cups
the wet afternoon perfumed
with tangerine peels

the heat wave broken
morning coffee sweetened
with a cool breeze

cold sunshine
the stray orange cat
tucked into itself

sleety rain
flowered umbrellas
sold out

summer reading
the dot of an i
moves down the page

drifting
from somewhere
pear blossoms

a curve in the road
looking for lilacs
in the wind

the rain over
even with eyes shut
I know it's spring

gray and cold-
a hothouse bouquet
for his widow

incoming fog
a forgotten memory
comes in flashes

from an open barn
the odor of hay and manure
and climbing roses

plot, plop on the road?
cars follow the cow trail
to the milking barn

moon gazing
fogging up the cold window
with my breath

snowy afternoon
a slow accumulation
of desire

stacking stones
for a garden wall
the weight of their age

bouquets of lilacs
the last bunch fills
a milk bottle

twilight rain
the scent of lilacs
through the window

dead heading lilacs
the fragrance lingers
in memory

April warmth-
a new crop of dandelions
since yesterday

an ant in my bed-
for the two of us
not enough room

a shift in the wind
all my neighnbor's leaves
are now mine

morning fog
a watercolor wash
of maple gold 

sleety rain
waiting on the embers
before bed

Hurricane Irene
in the semi-darkness
a cold breakfast

heavy time
slowly ticking the minutes
Hurricane Irene

Fourth of July
watching fireflies
on the lawn

between morning chores
I open the door-
lilacs in the rain

all day long
the rhythmic beat
of melting ice

blank date book-
the gray afternoon
turns to white

sleet and rain-
stirring extra sugar
into hot mush

tree trimming
we listen to the music
of soft rain

early autumn
the sound of falling water
is cold

at the lawn concert
lighting one spot at a time-
fireflies

cricket in the house-
if only we shared
the same bedtime

the Thanksgiving meal -
after eating the talk
slows down

black-out--
the holiday glow
of fireflies

black-out--
in my neighbor's house
a room to room glow

A rippled moon :
In the pond, 
A sinking stone.

after bombing
ruins of the bridge
linked by fog

a pebble
sinks into its silence
river dusk

a flurry of snow
in the light of a street lamp
a man asks for change

Lighting the room,
candle by candle;
a winter evening.

crocus breeze -
my dying mother's words
come back to me 

sudden downpour -
the memory of a butterfly
washed away

from one year
to another -
the same moon

day moon -
the distance between us
full of silence

new moon
blue shadows in grey light
and week old snow

yellow walnut leaves
slowly appear on the lawn--
early morning light

the mulberry--
one brief smell of cut wood
in two hours work

homebound ferry
thoughts zigzagging
with the terns

the tall corn's shadow
stretched across the grave yard --
coming of Autumn 

eye to eye
with a flight of geese --
lingering heat 

cicada song
all through the twilight --
the moon also rises 

strong wind, little snow --
scraps and notes I've neglected
to throw away 

the tang of hot tar
carried on a breeze --
summer's end

summer clouds --
not enough paint to hide
the graffiti

rabbit and the hawk -
an awful truth stains
the fresh snow red

medicine wheels
cairns of field stone appear
in the cold spring fog

shoots of green grain-
old abandoned houses
stand along the highway

through autumn's dusk
the computer wanes and hums
one hundred crows

autumn deepens
we gather the few
remaining seeds

an aroma
of green walnuts
summer dusk

100 degree heat
country-western music
from the asian bar

reaching
for a new found warmth
sweet rhubarb cake 

she's found the gate
in the wall of willows
sunlight of spring

distant voices
a thin crust of ice
lingers on snow

long ago
I threw your letters away
footprints in snow

afraid of a boy
with an old man's eyes
needles of frost

the best lies
have the fewest details
cold half-moon

dull in a crescent's light
a canoe rests on the roof
autumn flood

a few leaves remain
at the ends of the branch
a brittle moon

sunflower
the day passing
slowly

August moon
countless raindrops to measure
the length of the day

moon phase
the welfare check
comes on the fifth

rose petals
fallen on bare earth
evening rain

the wasp
trapped between panes of glass
first spring light

a hazy moon
floats in my cup
white sake

temperature rising
thunderstorms and traffic noise
through the north window

homeless
pushing a cart along
Commerce Avenue

a line of coal cars 
viewed from the railroad bridge 
returning chill

icicles melting
another drunk pisses
in my alley

taking a bite
from a bitter orange
january thaw

christmas night
the little corner store
last to close

evening thunder
a homeless man
comforts his dog

city sunrise
these old buildings
cast long shadows

what day is this?
the metronome gathers dust
in the corner

4th of July
hotter than
a firecracker 

no work today
a carpenter ant wanders
aimlessly

garage sale
customers discuss
philosophy 

garage sale
'tales of power'
for half price

taiko drummers
listening to silence
between the beats

no moon, no stars,
just dull light from the city
summer haze

lost
on wildwood road
water lilies directionless

suddenly
the toads go quiet
rain begins

long dry grass
bristles underfoot
iced tea

firecrackers
far off in the distance
pepper on my tongue

between the drone
of lawnmowers
a scent of rain

returning chill
dissonate melodies
from the ice cream truck

waiting for the moon
before departing
ducks on the roof

the park's spring
overflowing with sun -
home from night shift 

night shift - still
I put on some make up
to lighten my darkness

green rimmed eye -
a glimmer of youth buried
in the fading iris

muddy grave -
the rich scent of roses
so red

full moon -
the bride tells me
it was forced

fridge magnet -
snack after snack
wasting away

advanced Parkinsonism
she wipes his dribbling saliva
remembers his kisses

half-moon
first day of the sales
in Oxford Street

gale force wind
dandelion seeds
in ocean depth

old barn --
the swallows' nests
long abandonned

Eid's sale
the Sikh shopkeeper
opens later than usual

so round the moon
this end of July the caesarian section
of the Green Cafe's landlady

wild Foehn
another murder
goes unsolved

mango flavoured tea
in a silver tin - departing guests
linger a while

oh moon, moon
above so much powdery snow
father is still ill

a McDo box
floats towards the fountain
insect on board

first snow
the asylum seeker
thoughts on the land

moon of the rains ~
even longer the days
still so dark

checking dividends
on the cashpoint screen
to and fro...an ant

roaches, cockroaches
heroins and cracks
in pavements and minds

a narrow boat
slowly along the canal
the moon

Remembrance Day-
even the traffic
pauses for 2 minutes

21-gun salute-
mortar fire echoes
in his eyes

dignified march-
veterans and peacekeepers
pass the applause

morning commute-
headlights fade
in the whiteout

How thin the moon!
the scent of lilacs
grows fainter...

divorce hearing
we talk about
the rain

daybreak
the train graffiti drips
autumn dew

the slow drift...
sunbeam across
an empty room

in her eyes
the end our date
the moon

in the lap
of a stone Buddha
fresh snow

picking up his toys
still in my funeral clothes
the very last time

solitary walk -
at nightfall the flash
of distant fireworks

stroke of midnight
the blast of foghorns
along the coast

after the rain
I check the growth
of each tulip

Sunday morning
smells of French toast
and cinnamon...

mother-in-law's face
on the biggest pumpkin
harvest moon --

untwisting
the rose bud
spring rain

winter night—
moving the bookmark
to another book

demolition site
the colors
of closet walls

this spring's fragrance
were it a woman I'd
follow wherever

sunlit helmet
the young soldier's eyes
invisible

twilight—
a puff of smoke
from a passing train

bayou moon—
the lingering scent
of cane whiskey

ripened tomatoes—
the busy shadow
of my straw hat 

up
with the chickens—
bayou sun

deep winter—
red beans one day
white beans the next

winter stars—
moth carcasses dot
the window screen

snowstorm—
another poem
too wordy

stubbled fields—
a fresh coat of snow
on a rusted pickup

winter wind—
he says my name
with a sigh

full moon—
a swollen tick
on the sow’s ear

washday gossip—
curtains flapping
in the breeze

October moon—
the shadow of a cypress
dapples the headstones 

gibbous moon—
the swelling egg sac 
of a wolf spider

summer's end—
still a little croak left
in the bullfrog

falling leaves—
she tells another lie
to cover the last

pouring more coffee
into the cup—
rain on the bayou

a face
in the nursing home window—
filigree moon

heat shimmer—
sinking my teeth
into a peach 

detox center—
dry curling leaves
litter the doorway 

full moon—
the old dog’s howl
falls into a yawn

falling leaves—
the cemetery
almost full

autumn sunset—
one pumpkin
left in the field

Sunday bells
the wide-open mouths
of sparrow hatchlings

harvest moon—
an owl swoops
into a cornfield 

wildflower bouquet—
taking the ladybug
back outside

rain on the bayou—
just enough moon to silver
the ripples

anniversary—
a few weeds
in the rose bed

summer winds— 
pieces of moon
through the willow

walking the old path
in secondhand shoes—
new moon

the scent
of sun and rain—
first summer peach

ripened tomatoes—
the last colour
of sunset

leaden sky—
the weight
of the dead sparrow

a whispering
among my kinfolk—
wind in the cypresses

easing into
a glass of Merlot
moonlight through the pines

cloud with thunder—
the way he says
"whatever"

approaching storm—
the silence
between us

seniors dance
the occasional rush
of cologne

plunging a knife
into the watermelon—
the heat

end of an affair—
the ligustrum tree
no longer in bloom

mother’s day—
she wears her best apron
to wash the dishes

windfall apple—
eye to eye with the worm
that found it first

summer stars—
she tells a lie
without blinking

moonbeams—
a clump of mushrooms
where the bird's buried

summer haze—
mother's faded notes
for dewberry jam

first blossoms—
three speckled eggs
in the wren’s nest

spring rain
my tears fall for the nestling
the cat gifts me

spring cold snap—
my garden spade turns up
half a worm

moving day—
cottonwood seeds drift
past my window

ripening cherries—
the cardinal's wife settles
deep in the nest

wildflowers
the many voices
of a blue jay

spring chill—
one kitten left
without a nipple

ripening apples—
unable to button
my summer dress

mile after mile
of corral fencing—
wind in the clover

passing cloud—
her pause
before the lie

scattered wind
fragments of conversation
drift from a pub

spring buds—
the first batch of tadpoles
in the meadow pond

long winding road
the length
of our quarrel

spring storm—
a small blue feather
in the cat’s whiskers

bedtime story— 
scribbles of rain
across the window

evening coffee—
wisps of fog rise
from the bayou

the lilac in bud—
a cloud with storm in it
swells over the bay 

endless rain
without opening
a crocus falls

partly cloudy—
I remember the face
but not the name

whiskey moon—
a morning after
at the bottle’s end

a lake
brimming with mountains—
trout ripple the sky

bus window fog
the heart someone
left behind

rusted gate
old lilacs blooming
for no one

fly fishing
a rainbow arcs across
evening

October wind
sweeping cobwebs
from the wood pile

dusty knickknacks
mother's whole life
on one shelf

fireworks gone
Orion's beauty remains
in the stillness

gathering dusk
outside a quayside café
fishermen’s lines

new home
she promises me the world
in a lilac tree

ursa major
a plane's navigation lights
leave the system

house clearance
room by room by room
my mother disappears

rain on the river– 
when does white become
its darkest colour --

Kirkstone Pass
a sheepdog gathers
its part of the world

mistfall
the swansongs
of orb spiders

dark news
the comfort
of crows

hard frost-
the snail-hammerings
of a song thrush

family home
the grain of the wood
enters his hands 

sleep disorder
the gas station lights
keep me company

the half-truths
in a well-lit room
midnight's rain

first morning
the marks of a moth
in old laundry

a lamb's cry
scudding clouds over
the cemetery wall

train whistle
a blackbird hops
along its notes

the moon is broken
Battersea Power Station
from a train window

Valentine's Day
my wife reads up
on Henry VIII

zombie debt-
the practised slice
of a bread knife

lullaby of rain
another pinch of saffron
in the pumpkin soup

woodfire
flickering in the silence
corralled horses 

thunder snow
the wind-shifting scent
of fox

Gare du Nord
the slow change of snow
on fake fur

fighting illness-
the darkness before the light
of the new year

bag of beer
snail trails leave it
from all directions

sunday lunch
the chatter of children
among hard drinkers

the night train passes
along the mountain trail
garlic snores

the rain
almost a friend
this funeral

tired new mom -
brown leaves
falling from the green trees

baby's got two months
in the forest, all is new
to my eyes 

curly morning clouds
half round
the moon and me 

my childhood room
slow movements of the ladybug
covered in dust! 

sunny spell
so sensual the necks
of daffodils

how can he love so much?
warm evening light
on the waving dog's tail

frosty grass
the horse's neck already
in the sun

April thunderstorm
at the feet of the statues of queens of France
flowers of chestnut trees

October full moon
on the rails --
hot wind

a child scan
the mutilated face --
sound of crate

silence
the moon breaks through
the firework smoke

another test
another doctor visit
long winter nights

two moons
on August 27th
Mother's birthdate

saw grass--
bluebottles teeming
on a white skull

late afternoon--
the first cow
heads to the barn

porn shop-
the graying clerk reads
Hegel

cold snap-
her pause before
each tulip

Coltrane
two floors up...floats
out a window

her hair
brushed with moonlight...
forty years ago

molten by a morning sun
frozen cranes take wing
one by one

not breathing
Japanese cranes
pausing in the snow

a hundred thousand spectators
three laureates
a moth

flooded paddies
floating rice shoots -
relentless rain

unmown grass
in the cemetery -
lighting bugs

the colour of wind
through pine trees
must be blue

lighthouse
above the sound
silence

cancer ward -
a yellow woman
applies lipstick

mother daughter
lunch
storm and thunder

laundry encounter
a plastic shark
falls out of a bath towel

'seven samurai' *
half the village burning
while my son makes popcorn

wild fires
in the mist
the ashes

grandfather's grave
just another stone
for the dragonfly

a sleepless hour
first the geese
then the train

fall clock
the deer by the pond
an hour earlier

morning troubles
it starts with a dead cricket
in the spider web

cotton fields
the only white left
is the snow

half moon
mom's birthday
without mom

eclipse
the path of the sun
blocked by billboards

ring around the moon
I remember parts
of a nursery rhyme

empty bleachers
a late night fog
takes the field

butterfly on the windshield
another journey
incomplete

early summer
the ice cream truck
makes another round

old cottonfields
a long time
between snows

harmonica player
he cups the cold
in his hands

our anniversary
so many candle flames
in the mirror

new gravesite
the persistent taps
of a woodpecker

emergency broadcast
we head for the storm cellar
with a bottle of wine

late spring
each clock in the house
shows a different time

leaving home
the warmth still inside
my freshly ironed shirt

gray drizzle
for miles and miles
this road I'm on

liberty market
one free pickle
from the barrel

christmas album
every year he wears
the same flannel shirt

murmur of rain
hard to catch the words
when he talks in his sleep

moonless night
a spoonful of darkness
stirring my tea

bullfrog chorus
one a little louder
than the rest

failed copy
the real iris bluer
than the photograph

sad news
the blur of reading
through tears

summer haze
the thin gauze
of her white dress

pale legs
under a white moon~
shivering aspen

beach house
a bit of sand
in my tea

dark lamp shade--
squinting her eyes in low light
to read your letter

tuesday sunrise
spilling grains of sugar
in my black tea

bitter quarrel
the lingering taste
of too many aspirin

last train
a woman's scent 
in a lost scarf

cello music
cold creeps under
the kitchen door

prairie motel
from my window
stars and fireflies 

after the wave ---
the grade crossing rings
for nobody

ginger hair on the mud 
all that  remains 
of a fox dream 

autumn storm --
the moth
stuck at the window

glances ...
across the river
the heron and me

autumn night --
the animal cried a long time
in the garden

traffic jam
high in the sky
a heron flies by

autumn storm
in the computer room
servers purr

drizzle this morning
islands drowned in the mist
red lights of the bridge

warm rain
smells of tar, dirt,
and snails

a dew drop 
full 
of autumn light

heavy leaves
in the evening rain
heaps of darkness

air-raid alarm --
traffic lights are working
for no one

persimmon tree
mallards drink in
its reflection

migratory pelicans...
the pollster presses
for an opinion

crescent moon
a young mockingbird
with its one song

fever dream
a bird chirps the refrain
from the latin mass

first frost
another wish
goes on their list

first frost
why did I never
plant evergreens?

harvest days--
a fat toad
leaves the garden

the coming rain-- 
bird calls echo 
along the creek

early spring
pallets of fertilizer
on the loading dock

steeping tea--
no more or less
of the thin snow

first snow--
a dusting of flour
in the cake pans

cinco de mayo--
I walk downhill to watch
the moon rise again

spring storm--
overripe bananas
in the kitchen

evening thunder--
robin calls echo
across the park

the barn doors open--
dry leaves sweep
into the muddy yard

passing monarchs --
a few leaves flutter
to the road

cicadas
at twilight
finally it rains

summer's end
an orange sunset
crayoned on the wall

evening walk
same flickering glow
house to house

between Lake Erie
and the nuclear station
fireflies

the whole sky
for the Sunday painter
-- before thunderstorm

Ancient book
History of allergies
Sneezes

Hypermarket
at the perfume counter
Smell of leek

Carnival
Met in the stairs
Spiderman

broken bus shelter
the top model escapes
glass splinters

Armistice
He polishes the lion
of bronze

Restauration
brought back from Versailles
Nail in soles

no more war
two fighting beetles
on a tombstone

near the wall
of the cemetery
a condom

during the vigil
a withered flower
on the tiled floor

a gull gliding
out of the cloud's shadow -
suddenly white

freight train
a load of snow
going south

a chill ~
just before the drizzle
wind chime notes

rail track
amidst the corn fields
bisected infinity

chasing bubbles
near the floating moon
a paper boat

dusty haze
at the sunrise time 
a yellow rose

daylight
in the winter haze
a faint birdsong

morning fog
my new dahlias too
look so faded 

apple slices-
our last words
in the knife's blade

The New Millenium
brought to my window
two new icycles

concert under the stars --
a drop of sweat lost
in her décolletage

apple harvest
how my hands
have ripened

autumn melancholy
the click of mahjong tiles
from the computer

May clouds
new names and dates
in the family book

apricot blossoms
the birth of our first
granddaughter

blades of grass
between the flagstones ...
Easter afternoon 

Monday moon
the bent backs
of rice farmers

spring morning
finding an old flame
on Facebook

summer traffic
four cars, a tractor
and the full moon

winter night
too many stars
above Gaza

wall-to-wall clouds
and the hum of flies
summer dust

dead-end road
at the edge of the field
a new-born calf

harvest moon
the sound of women
pounding rice

winter evening
a teacup of mint
and moon

half moon
on the river the sound
of cracking ice

falling snow ...
she brings his urn closer
to the window

attractive
even in red
an oak leaf

autumn mist...
what is she doing now
my mother?

September rain ...
unaware of any pain
a peach falls

old temple
but all my prayers
are new

murmurings
in the old temple
summer wind

summer rain ...
drinking tea to the cadence
of falling leaves

warm afternoon
a fly with nowhere
to go

flat moon ...
an aspirine tablet and a
glass of water

the teacup
as empty as
my evening

a teacup
to fill
my afternoon

my day
measured out
in teaspoons

November moon
the last ball of cheese
in the fridge

Those stars.
No more fish
in the bay.

harvest moon
i gather my thoughts
for winter

first spring snow
I release my soul in
my first yoga class

free floating
a tide full of shell fragments
and fireworks 

morning glories
find their way to the sun
on barbed wire

at half-mast
a butterfly passes by
the still flag

empty sky
she turns love letters
into wings

in winter's wind
the call of a friend
who now has cancer

sunrise
the orange glow
of birdsong

the old quarry
blooms Fire Weed
out of rubble

sheltered from the wind
in granite fissures
coltsfoot

isolation
the Hawthorn tree
flowers in silence

night rain
the steady drip 
of morphine

blossom...
the sound of birdsong
fills the silence

honeysuckle breeze
someone honks when
the light turns green

I wake beside
my daughter's sick bed
a howling dog

night of meteorites --
enjoying the sound of rain
instead

winter window
closed to the cold -
purple orchid

Tonights light rainfall
Wraps me in soft silence
On my short walk home

no wind
in the wheat
autumn equinox

my same walk
in reverse
autumn equinox

biking downhill
an Amish girl with bonnet straps 
clenched in her teeth 

Good Friday . . .
digging a grave
for this seed

tea for one . . .
the prolonged scream
of the kettle

Valentine's Day
a stock girl takes home
the petal-less orchid

the washing machine
wobbles across the room
winter solstice

only one side
of the conversation
cemetery walk

a letter addressed
to whom it may concern
cold moon

answers
just not easy ones
fall leaves

autumn equinox
laying her husband to rest
beside his first wife

just
a thin slice
Thanksgiving moon

summer solstice
at the end of the snail trail
the end of the snail

moonlight kiss
how long it takes to notice
the rain

Mother's Day
three bouquets
of emoji roses

weaving
through traffic . . .
two white butterflies

jury break . . . 
we free hollyhock seeds
in the courthouse garden

morning sun
a constellation of holes
in the rhubarb leaf

autumn equinox--
the snap
of a plumb line

forest bathing . . .
the scent of her
wildflower shampoo

field of poppies . . .
a light breeze
fans the flames

heavy air
the mango tree thick
with iguanas

book group . . .
the cat chooses
my lap

Perseids . . .
soft thuds here and there
in the orchard

gurgles 
through the baby monitor
first fireflies

honeysuckle breeze
in a circle of lowing
the newborn calf

back 
from the sea
this familiar rain

family photo
the blur of
the dog's tail

snow cover . . .
the remaining panels
of a greenhouse

new moon . . . 
the thud
of a walnut

Perseids . . . 
somewhere a cow
calls for her calf

summer solstice
unrolling dust
with the blinds

just beyond
the candle's reach . . .
fireflies

200 miles . . .
this plum blossom
on my windshield

winter solstice . . .
the reverse side
of the needlepoint

quietly joining
the conversation . . .
prairie stars

painted clouds . . .
the pause before
answering "fine"

after the stroke
only half
a smile

crossroads--
a spiderweb spans
both signs

open window
the promise
of purple clover

punctuating
a moonless night
the cries of geese

after our quarrel
the frog resumes
his croaking

leap day --
sitting on my suitcase
I make it fit

after
the kite festival . . . 
stars

poetry workshop --
men compare
fountain pens

Ides of March
celebrating the return
of buzzards

ice cream truck —
they abandon their castle
to the tide

nothing but a dumpster
and that brilliant azalea
blooming beside it

slowly
day to dusk...
fragrance of lilacs

factory whistle!
near freight tracks
the night shift

just cold enough
for puddles to freeze . . .
cubist moon

end of the line —
railway carriage
rusting on the tracks

fitful sleep —
a single bark in the dark
then silence

distant thunder
white curtains billow
in the dusk

they disregard
the No Trespassing sign!
violets

so much bigger
than its bottle —
essence of lavender

pond at dusk —
frogs and blackbirds
in conversation

child's paintbox —
every color untouched
except blue

radio dial . . .
trying to find
my youth

in the attic
an antique scale
weighing dust

middle of winter . . .
the fresh scent
of clean laundry

early autumn
a round orange leaf
curled on the pavement 

foggy morning . . .
blazing with bittersweet
the cemetery wall

leaden clouds . . .
the way the bare trees
support them

a whiff
of distant Coppertone
— sea breeze

writing I love you
in the pollen dust
on her windshield

even the memory
of winter is melted . . .
blazing summer day

empty lot . . .
and still those tulips
where once was a garden

summer solstice
the sun reaches the cobwebs
in the corner

pointing
every which way
cut tulips

riverside wedding —
the flower girl
picks a dandelion

Terrassengärten . . .
from a quiet corner
the sound of a zither

from nowhere
to nowhere . . .
bridge in fog

saffron smudges
in the evening sky . . . 
 birdsong

examinations ...
blank sheets as students
observe the falling leaves

marble moon ...
the staccato of high heels
at rush hour

sampling my husband's
home-made wine ...
autumn evening

stuck in traffic
dreaming of the monsoon
in a far-away land

at the window
the drumming of rain ...
I catch up on sleep

this morning the sun
a fried egg on a plate
of blue china

doves
on the TV antenna
war on TV

chirping birds --
the instant I press
the stop button

new year...
a magpie turns over
an old leaf

too soon the darkness
your last words lingering
in mist

moon and mist ~
night settles into silence
and white breath

my dead mother's voice
on the answering machine
. . . again and again . . .

summer sunset ~
the slow glide of a heron
into shadows

young girls in fog --
the fleet movement of hands
fluffing tobacco

Chechnya ~
blackened bones and ashes
smouldering

new leaves
pattered by rain . . .
cardinal song

first bright day
a daffodil left
in an open book

early spring
an urge to wear
pink lipstick

painted eggs —
the promises
you made

first date
the slow dance of tulips
in a vase

a plate of pancakes
glistening with syrup
spring moon

knitting on a beach
one blue wave laps
over another

long winter night
I show him my scar
in the shape of the moon

unkind words 
the sudden tightening
of mussel shells

heavy rain
finally he comes clean
about the lie

in a pile of old rubbish
how the rain gathers
the sky

deep winter
reading a dead friend's book
on alchemy

both feet slide
into the sky
frozen pavement

Milky Way
over a neolithic dig
the length of a breath

deep
into city streets
the call of seagulls

deep inside
the iris
summer rain 

wet hair drying
on a summer night
scent of the sea 

deleting 
my pregnancy app
autumn rain 

a girl at twilight
with a white balloon
moonrise

in the hammock
where we lay all summer
fallen leaves

Southend-on-Sea
freshly fried chips
on the salt air

moss
softens the wings
of stone angels

the silence
between us-
filled with sunlight

moon on the wane
the sound of wings
at dusk

desert dream
the sound of foghorns
on the Solent

ageing skin
the warmth and softness
of a baked apple

open windows -
all the contrails
feathering

spring clarity
the local pub reveals
its old name

poetry books
banished to the bathroom -
spring cleaning

solar flare -
spring moon half-hidden
in the clouds

February rain -
the word 'spring'
on the Scrabble board

February wind -
the word 'crocus'
on the Scrabble board

sudden rainstorm
my place in another world
kept by a bookmark

Satie -
the rain
eases

Chinese market -
a row of small gold buddhas
share a smile

pension plans
the slow drone of a plane
coming in to land

strategic plan -
the sound of distant
foghorns

light rain -
water workers
dig a hole in the road

February sun -
a street light still on
in the daytime

the smell of varnish
lingers in the hall
like winter

Valentine's Day -
recycling
old gold

grey day
the only bright spot
a red traffic light

cold rain
the greengrocer stacks cabbages
on cabbages

a window frames
the whole free world
in one white gull

between
the Prime Minister's words
birdsong

new year
fireworks
in a misty sky

late summer
graffiti overgrown
with ivy

a drop of ink -
tadpoles wriggle
on the water's surface

spring storm -
the grey dawn briefly
luminous

atop the high wall...
the intertwining of
barbed wire & roses

after brief rain...
petrol rainbows appear
on the tarmac

mist and rain-
from the dark church
we walk into light

uphill country walk...
on the verge wild plants
thriving in a carrier bag 

fading light
with its own tiny rainbow
the lake's fountain

recycling point...
one bin's slot is sealed
with a spider's web

after warm rain...
by the river the scent
of garlic & earth

after the storm...
stuck to the window
two leaves side by side

concert in full flow...
mingling with the music
the smell of cooking

washing-up done-
through netted windows
a fading sunset

a ladder leans
into the scent of apples ...
orchard fog

brewing storm ...
how the clouds stir
in my coffee 

skin mapping
the familiar constellations
on his back

only the glow
of a paper lantern
new moon

alighting
on the edge of night
barn owl

brussel sprouts
only the bitterness left
on our table

a touch 
of bluegrass ...
spring 

the noir
of a beetle's carapace
passing rain

bobble and bounce
of the last marshmallow ...
hot cocoa 

cutting flowers ...
a honeybee lingers
in the empty space

the first scent 
of pink jasmine
open book

wet wooly mittens
drying by the hearth side
the smell of wet sheep

the rhythmic lift
of her childbearing hips
high tide 

another way out ...
a backdoor slammin'
in the wind 

Beware of Dog
only the wildest flowers
go in there

the visual feast
of the first plum blossom
hunger moon

left behind
his scent of aftershave
on my cheek 

wolf call
in the distance ...
ice moon

the hollow sound
of sacred earth landing
six feet below

winter wind
a cradlesong sung
in an ancient tongue

sun tea darkens—
bees in the hollyhocks
all afternoon

mud-spattered pickup-
four dogs watch
the tavern door

spring fever
my heartbeat quickens
through the avalanche zone

spring morning-
the urge to skip
and the wisdom not to

power outage
hoarfrosted pines
shimmer in moonlight

rumble of thunder-
slicing just-picked peaches
for the pie

spring fever
my pockets full
of old grocery lists

spring rain
I read his letters
one last time

the familiar wail
of a common loon-
your empty chair

Thanksgiving evening
the call of wild ducks
out on the bay

drumming rain
a patchwork of dreams
just before waking

the trail narrows-
every shadow
a possible bear

lingering grief-
calls of southbound geese
through misty rain

lingering light
through the willows
scent of rain

obsidian night
the white sound
of rain

a steady drizzle-
all day the weight
of things unsaid

sleet ticking windows--
the chemo drip
in its last hour

evening shadows
on the walls of the Alamo
graffiti

dusty knickknacks
I try to recall
the scent of burning leaves

midsummer morning--
the boat's gentle tug
at the anchor 

an old woman
with a lost look in her eyes--
chilled wind

woodsmoke and fog
along the river bank
three trails meet

searcher's call
the lost child's name-
streetlamps veiled with rain

journey's end
far off in the blue distance
dark clouds

ice moon-
a berry branch
forced into bloom

avalanche warning-
how very still
this winter night

our dusty truck-
an Amish man walks barefoot
across the village green

that long-ago kiss--
and still Orion strides
the winter sky

bitter cold--
we don't chase the lone crow
from the sparrow's food

deepening snow--
she leaves our atlas open
to her homeland

warmed-over coffee--
the gray gray sound
of winter rain

3:00 a.m.--
through sounds of winter rain
the mail plane landing

no wind tonight
across this reach of prairie
all those stars

sipping fresh cider--
both dippers
among the far stars

cool morning--
at the top of the rise
deer pass in the fog

meditation room--
books of wisdom
lean left . . . and right

turning north--
sand from both oceans
in little jars

nearly 60 --
so many mountains around me
still unclimbed

a B-52
thunders over the bay--
blue heron lifting

Sentinels of spring...
kites bobbing for attention
in saucy March winds

the crowd 
holding blossoms . . . 
thunder!

sifting shadows
with remnants
of rain

stars falling
from the sky . . .
autumn moon

making pancakes
between whispers . . .
morning mist

humid morning . . .
words dangle
from her lips

humid night . . .
the darkness
between your thighs

upstairs, swathed
in neon, the
scent of jasmine

lanternless night . . .
a whisper passing
through leaves

a slower
moon this evening . . .
the cold!

autumn depths . . .
a mole dreaming
of darkness

the egg seller . . .
her cracked hands
speak of winter

high noon . . .
young girls harvest
rice from a mirror

early spring . . .
young women collecting
peach blossoms

after midnight . . .
a shooting star beneath
the wharf

mid-summer . . .
she shares with me
a ripe melon!

no longer a
mirror, this lake chasing
geese into darkness

almost summer . . .
eating an especially
ripe mango

gusts of wind
dancing together under
a harvest moon

the fullness
of ripe melons . . .
this summer moon

summer leaves . . .
remembering
mother's dry skin

a mountain,
the stone buddha . . .
and cold food

daybreak
your kiss on the lip
of a coffee cup

the full moon
and a rice field
planted with stars

day moon . . .
a paper lantern floating
down river

kissing you
under a paper moon . . .
the stars!

cool morning . . .
your smile pasted on
a coffee cup

a monkey listens
to his own breath . . .
autumn rain

watching
my wife's ashes float by. . .
autumn moon

memories of you
in rice field shadows . . .
september moon

incoming tide . . .
your breasts
rise and fall

humid morning . . .
planting rice in a
field of mirrors

your reflection
floating in a tea cup
too hot to drink

harvest moon . . .
a new song in
the rice field

a laborer
sowing dreams
in a field of stars

come morning,
fish scales and the letter
you didn't send

laborers sink
into the rice field
.. . . autumn dusk

lanternless night . . .
a woman too old
to dream

morning haze . . .
a post office clerk
opening letters

morning twilight
. . . the rice field
in her eyes

sunday morning . . .
her shadow
on a clothesline

harvest moon . . .
a shadow
sorting laundry

passing dreams . . .
the night scented
with laundry soap

a cockroach
in my rice bowl . . .
unaware of dawn

autumn cool . . .
wondering what an ant thinks
about after work

in the clouds,
a fish i haven't
seen before

ah, crickets!
the neighbors ceased
playing mahjong

summer rain . . .
the mountain sinks
into a rice field

high noon . . .
fish in the marketplace
gasping for water

the stillness of
a moth that didn't
reach the moon

petals pressed
between pages of a book
i never read

short night . . .
thoughts of you and
a paper thin moon

speaking
to her ashes
between summer moons

humid day---
her t-shirt refuses
to dry

day moon---
her skin a half
shade lighter

memories of her
floating in a leftover
cup of tea

summer grass---
my mother's
rice paper skin

moonless night---
remembering
her small breasts

twilight
watching my shadow
float downriver

sipping more than
just tea----
the moon in passing

eyeing
the apple
at buddha's feet

the farmer,
planting corn under
a pregnant moon

drunk tonight---
an elixir of cherry blossoms
and moonlight

his shadow
passes me by---
the charcoal seller

the potter's fingers
wet with clay---
first rain

saying the rosary
a laborer
planting rice

rainy night---
her phone number
in my wallet

cold night
the clink of bottles
in a grocery cart

contemplating
nightfall---
the stone buddha

the offering
in front of the stone buddha
eaten by cats

between two rivers,
the echo of
his mallet

sunday afternoon---
a steam train
pushes back the fog

eating rice---
how many stars are
in the sky ?

falling leaves---
a trail of clothing
leads to the bed

biting his nails,
a little boy watches
the outgoing tide

cold night---
my reflection
sipping coffee

moon viewing---
warming my hands
with a cup of coffee

all hallows eve---
stars paint the
cemetery ground

all saints day---
spent candles
in the cemetery

dark clouds---
a student drawing
with charcoal

egrets
plucking shadows
at dusk

fading this
autumn night---
the heron's legs

sculpting
clay, the potter
at dawn

master wind
sweeping the temple
zealously

house cleaning---
the forest fire
at dawn

metal birds
fly south to the
forest fire

even my pee
stays inside this
cold winter night

snowfall---
a milk mustache
on my daughter's face

geese honking---
children in the
bathtub playing

lakeside,
below the egret---
a city of lights

thousands of miles
away, her first birthday---
fresh mango

swimming across
the moonlit sky---
a gray carp

half moon
darkness drinking from an
alabaster teacup

floating
down river
an egret's shadow

dried wheat grass---
a bleached blond
combing her hair

no stars
in the sky tonight
hungry carp

burning leaves
this foggy evening---
two kinds of smoke

waiting for winter---
eating rice balls
under a full moon

scooping steamed rice,
the laborer
at sundown

windswept afternoon---
tea scent
on my tongue

thank you, mango---
for a moment i was
somewhere else

passing cars
replace sheep
this sleepless night

reoccurrence
of cancer ---
no spring this year

along the tracks
in the dark, to where
the candles are 

returning light
a robin
sings and sings

hospice window
the roar of the spring tide
receding

only the winter
chrysanthemums remain
morning moon 

the red cap
of a green woodpecker. . .
first flakes of snow 

how else to know
the shape of the breeze
dancing blossoms

winter solstice
each day the boy's smile
wider

news of his death
the winter jasmine wreathed
in mist

season of mists. . .
a calling of wild geese
arrows south

amber leaves
caught between 'for sale'
and 'sold'

old manor house
each empty room has
its own echo

slender grasses
and warm summer rain
touching the buddha

into dusk
the white rose
still whiter

heat lightning—
the first drop of sweat
on her chin

morning mist
green tips of onions
cracking the soil

equinox—
the double ferris wheel
across the lake

through a train window—
the blurs of lifetimes
on walls of graffiti 

pre-dawn silence
a Greyhound bus
shifts gears

hard freeze—
lingering steam
from a new-born calf

becoming dusk
rooftop to treetop,
the echo of crows

night bus stop
the plop of a Styrofoam cup
and swirl of coffee 

lengthening days
even the morning glory
a shade bluer

long afternoon
the occasional tapping
of a screen door

cold, foggy night—
only the echo
of a buoy's bell

gathering dusk --
with each swell of sea
a buoy dips deeper

shouldering coals
the rattle of blue crabs
in a metal bucket

sun blaze—
the flash of chrome
outside a biker bar

wisp of clouds
the slow spiral of cream
in my espresso

almost dusk - 
the zigzag flight
of linked dragonflies

dusk-
fireflies leading the way
to the car door

long drive home
grass poking through
fresh fallen snow

rushing to work
seeing frozen new leaves
on the rose bush

Morning Paper
twice the colored ad inserts
as the news

packing up house
boxes of broken dreams
filling the dumpster

driving home
full moon
dancing in puddles

at the hotel
plugging in my laptop
for a touch of home

through the window
five minutes between projects
watching the pansies dancing

scent of rain
all the ways
we failed each other

spring rain
the dogwood
half petals, half leaves

hunger moon
how bittersweet
this longing

a fallen leaf
brushes the corner
of your grave stone

autumn chill
the fallen leaf's veins
tinged a deeper hue

day lilies
the dormant spark of death
within me

despite
the foreclosure sign
daffodills

freezing rain
the words
I cannot take back

deep winter
igniting the match
with a lit candle

cold rain
the persistent warmth
of your kiss

Thanksgiving
a new seat
at the table

autumn wind
knowing what you
will say next

maple in full flame
becoming at last
myself

chrysanthemum moon
the way
you open me

leaf after leaf falls
the way your laugh
makes me laugh

mackerel sky
first gold leaves spangle
the maple

cricket song
my longing too
unanswered 

mosquito
and I
blood brothers

cloud watching
the reunion
of Pangaea

eclipse
the taste of goodbye
in your kiss

this old fight
knowing both our parts
thunder moon 

lingering dusk
the silence between us
says it all

lover's quarrel
the tea kettle
silenced

summer day
clover bending
with the bee's weight

ceiling fan
the whirl
of my thoughts

sego lilies
the trail dissolves
into wildflowers

As if yesterday
your twenty-year-old body
wild strawberries

yellowed envelope
holding your golden curls
spring cleaning

zazen
attempting to awaken
I fall asleep

a robin's beak
pierces its shell
earth day

twilight
portrait of a child
that will never age

untimely death
watching dust fall
through sun's rays

veil of spring rain
the anniversary
of my divorce

cloudless sky 
all the things 
I don't know 

Ash Wednesday
light rain
from the cloud-smudged sky

first crocus
the oncologist says
no hope 

terminal cancer 
the contrails end 
midair 

from my window
a maple's lichened trunk
the only green

starless night
my daughter delivered home
by a policeman

Valentine's Day
thin ice covers
the pond

biting the peel
a burst of orange mist
firelight 

first snow
all the shades
of white

solstice
sipping a stronger brew
in the waning light

year-end bank statement
reusing the tea bag
for a second cup

winter night
the chill of moonlight
on my skin

rain turns to sleet
grounding my daughter
our shared tears 

winter in the wind
no cake for this candle lit
in memoriam

all saints day
from the corner of my eye
someone no one

cold rain
a maple leaf floats
in the water basin

deep autumn
we read love poems once
in these woods

October moon
white pumpkins glow
in the field

autumn arrives early
for this mountain ridge
and me

autumn mist
bull elk's mating call
splits the silence

first frost
instead of silk
flannel

autumn equinox
the fallen leaf
half-green, half-gold

morning tea
returning the cup
its emptiness

autumn grasses
at least the tea
remains green

end of summer
more cucumbers
than neighbors

damselflies
dart across the water
a bluer blue

August heat
the pregnancy test results
become clear

midnight jazz
rain streaming down
the verdigris chain 

the taste
of pine's bitter honey
these bitter tears

sepia souls smile
from a photo negative
reunion

faded postcard
the Nagasaki temple
then

summer heat
kimono hung on the wall
billows from the fan

afternoon heat
tandem damselflies
bask on a reed

silver dawn
slug traces iridesce
on the garden path

sweltering stillness
the nurse flicks a bubble
from the syringe

relentless sun
my lips meet the cool arc
flowing from the hose

overgrown grapevine
unsigned divorce papers
heavy in my hand

this winding river 
confluence of what I know 
and what I don't

overcast Sunday---
the lilacs
remind me of last night

bus stop -
all eyes
on the migrating geese

desert wind --
even the stones
in unfamiliar colors

the mixed calls
of courting birds --
scent of damp earth

biting cold --
frost on the nail heads
of the old fence

winter solstice --
the fog lifts from a tree
filled with ravens

closing time --
an expensive fingernail
on the mall floor

Friday the 13th --
a bit of volcanic ash
in the winter fog

sunrise --
a view of the sky through
a worm-eaten leaf

Indian Summer --
ducks make their way
from shade to shade

afternoon heat --
bird song fades as I enter
the tunnel

summer solstice --
a flock of sandpiper splits
and splits again

the old log --
moss grows around
an obscene word

first roses --
just enough heat to
settle the mosquitoes

mid-day heat
my eyes follow
the swallow's flight

whale watching --
a distant cloud rains
into the sea

morning haze --
a mosquito above
the pond ice

a soda can
shot full of holes --
spring sun

Easter morning --
I head out into
trackless snow

first pussy willows --
the sound of a woodpecker
shifts again

home sick --
just the sound
of icicles dripping

spring frost --
a tower light pierces
the sunset

spring in the air --
my walking stick pierces
crusted snow

a fly beats
against the window --
melting snow

subzero --
a moth flies towards
the moonlit door

year's end --
a few tentative steps
on the river ice

dawn --
the maple's colors
spread through the fog

a new day --
the priest's robes
fill with snow

overnight rain --
the scent of orange blossoms
in a desert town

polished oak --
the freesia's shadow ends
in coffee foam

scattered sun --
one chickadee
louder than the rest

morning delivery --
snow comes in
with the FedEx man

dog days --
the hill carried away
a truck at a time

lingering day --
I study the moss
in a park bench

sunset --
the day's heat
still in the car

end of the drought --
a mushroom tilts
under the spruce

slow boats --
the wind pushes a butterfly
out to sea

cloud shadows --
and eagle picks over
what the tide left

ebb tide --
a photo of a missing girl
flutters in the breeze

first raindrops --
frog bones in
the middle of the path

untrodden snow --
my breath clouds the way
into the trees

crescent moon --
I follow the trail of
a dragged Christmas tree

end of the year --
tracks along the edge
of thin ice

full moon --
last week's snow
slips from a wire

steady drizzle --
a snore from the man
on the next yoga mat

moonless night --
a bath oil bead
melting in the rain

winter doldrums --
the rain drips from
plastic candy canes 

night of meteors --
the first Christmas lights
go up on the block

approaching winter --
I leave the seashell
at the bottom of my purse

the empty bench --
spilled coffee
turned to ice

working Saturday --
the small shadows of pigeons
in the fog

the puddled field --
blades of grass
pierce a cloud

morning haze --
ice drifts around
the river stones

berry stains
along the sidewalk --
hint of frost

a bright morning --
the mud pulls away
from a frosty stone

walking meditation --
I pass through
a cloud of breath

new coolness --
a train's light moves
along the mountainside

wispy clouds --
the last blossom hangs
on the fireweed

new coolness --
a pool at the center
of the lupine leaves

sirens --
the wind pushes
a butterfly to the ground

noon glare --
the wind blows sand
out to sea

dog days --
driving to the lake
to watch the icebergs drift

after the rain --
a frog-shaped shadow
wavers in the puddle

hugs --
the spider on my
old friend's arm

spray painted log --
I try not to sit
on the word f***

a few yellow leaves --
the construction site grows
towards my favorite tree

week of rain --
the insect's trail
on the flattened leaf

a winged ant
crawls on hot asphalt --
end of summer

discount store --
the unfinished tatoo
on the cashier's arm

summer dust --
a caterpillar under
the whale bone arch

a white night --
salmon bones
curled against a log

scent of new leaves --
a caterpillar swings
in a shaft of light

half-frog pose
I lie and listen
to the rain

spring currents --
the first gulls
picking bones

a hawk searches
the dry grass --
sundogs

the courtship songs
of so many birds --
wind through my shirt

scent of rain --
a whale-shaped cloud
hangs over the bay

a cold morning --
goose honks echo
off the pavement

steamed milk --
snowmelt running from
the coffee shop roof

between the yoga
and chi gung classes --
scent of burning sage

dawn storm --
a bit of mountain ash
stirred into the snow

horizonless --
sky-colored ice
turns in the bay

sharp air --
the patch of blue
changes shape

daylight moon --
the shadows of bubbles
under the ice

fog patches --
a second little face
in the sonogram

spin cycle --
snow flakes swirl outside
the laundromat

lifting fog --
a few white feathers
in the raven's breast

subzero --
the icicles filled
with moonlight

long cold snap --
the icicle
begins to fork

low clouds --
a gull circles above
the police car light

snowy banks --
the drifting duck leans
into a curve

a long split
in the black inky cap --
snow clouds

dusk--
a yellow leaf passes
through the beaver dam

season's end --
the scent of fish
drifts downstream

new coolness --
a cloud passes through
the mountain notch

soft rain
fishing line parts
a cloud of gnats

evening light
following the anchor line
into the sea

how quickly
the nights grow longer --
fireweed in bloom

summer salad --
a nasturtium burns
the tip of my tongue

a spider web
caught in my hand;
scent of rain

a damp evening --
each of us with
our own cloud of gnats

the evening train
almost empty --
sundogs

week of rain --
the henna tatoo
fading fast

low tide --
a shorebird's call
rises from the mud

Sunday drive --
all the rain clouds
toward home

wildfire haze
between the icebergs --
the blue wind

dandelions --
I lose sight of
the yellow butterfly

someone whistling
Blue Moon at the falls --
the mist

lenghtening days --
a bird's shadow crosses
the yellow wall

new moon --
lamplight fills the holes
in a shot-out sign

moss growing
on the manhole cover --
winter rain

news of his death --
I can't stop looking
at the sickle moon

daybreak -
ice between
the river stones

locking it -
moonlight at the back
of the mailbox

silence -
the evening snow falls
onto moss

distant thunder-
a caterpillar drops
from a ragged leaf

first light
the perfect symmetry
of a moth

noon --
the morning clouds
roll from the valley

slowly ...
a loon preens
in the mountains reflection

waiting...
dandelion fluff
lands on the table

a twilight sun
between two peaks -
white lilacs

boardwalking--
the dragonfly's shadow
drops through a crack

in the far shadows
something swimming
-- or a log

flashing against
the winter killed grass
a swan's whiteness

April -
a gull's cry passing
through morning snow

spring evening
a long pause on the bridge
to watch the water run

sunny afternoon
the scent of leaf mold
mixed in the ice

water changing
into ice --
the pale moon

hazy afternoon
the woodpecker's call
bounces off the ice

dusky clouds --
a patch of blue
hangs over the valley

February --
the heart-shaped tracks
of a moose

returning birds --
three notes pass through
morning fog

waiting for
the loon to surface
I hold my breath

somewhere
in the autumn haze
cranes calling

day's end :
muddy boots
& cold coffee

winter fog --
floating out of the barn
a farmer's lantern

cold morning 
only the sound 
of pages turning

gray dusk --
the orange flare
of his cigarette

Ash Wednesday 
in slowly passing clouds 
a dusting of snow

smoke curling 
from a snuffed candle --
crescent moon

winter morning --
blast of a train 
whistle 

morning commute --
a hawk perches
on a speed limit sign

blustery night
imperfect lullabies
from the windchimes

Valentine's Day
a forsythia
without birds

early spring air
all day long
our beds not made

husband away
washing his socks
by hand

between memories
and the parents' grave
the curtain of rain

my sweaty skin --
enough for three weeks
his ironed shirts

beggar's steps
at the bakery
slower and slower

Force and yielding meet
together: An attack
is half repulsed.

Shafts of broken sunlight
dissolving Convolutions
of torpid cloud.

The boat drifts to
rest Under the outward
spraying branches.

She is an iris, Dark
purple, pale rose, Under the gnarled boughs That
shatter their stars of bloom.

She waves
delicately With the movement
of the tree.

Of what
is she
dreaming?

Of long nights lit with orange
lanterns, Of wine cups and compliments and
kisses of the two-sword men.

And of dawn when weary sleepers Lie
outstretched on the mats of the palace, And of the iris
stalk that is broken in the fountain.

Autumn winds roll through the
dry leaves On her garments; Autumn
birds shiver Athwart star-hung skies.

Under the blossoming plum-tree, She expresses
the pilgrimage Of grey souls passing, Athwart love's scarlet
maples To the ash-strewn summit of death.

Iris-amid-clouds
Must be
her name.

Tall and lonely
as the mountain-iris,
Cold and distant.

She has never known
longing: Many have died
for love of her.

" He listens idly,
He is content
with her voice.

They are spotted with
thunder showers, Falling upon
the crimson petals.

She is a fierce kitten
leaping in sunlight Towards
the swaying boughs.

She is a gust of wind, Bending
in parallel curves the boughs
of the willow-tree.

Gilded hummingbirds are whizzing
Through the palace garden, Deceived by the jade
petals Of the Emperor's jewel-trees.

The wind half blows
her robes, That subside Listlessly
As swaying pines.

The wind tosses hers In circles
That recoil upon themselves: How should I
love--as the swaying or tossing wind?

She glances expectantly
Through the pine avenue, To the cherry-tree summit
Where her lover will appear.

Gold and
vermilion The
afternoon.

I wait here dreaming of vermilion
sunsets: In my heart is a half fear
of the chill autumn rain.

The daimyo
and the courtesan Compliment
each other.

He invites her to walk
out through the maples, She half refuses,
hiding fear in her heart.

She is like the great
rains That fall over the
earth in winter-time.

Gaily he
offers Packets
of merchandise.

He is a harlequin of
illusions, His nimble features Skip into smiles,
like rainbows, Cheating the villagers.

But in his heart all the while is
another knowledge, The sorrow of the bleakness
of the long wet winter night.

One life is a long summer; Tall
hollyhocks stand proud upon its paths; Little yellow
waves of sunlight, Bring scarlet butterflies.

Another life is a brief autumn, Fierce
storm-rack scrawled with lightning Passed over it Leaving the naked
bleeding earth, Stabbed with the swords of the rain.

He plots for
he is angry, He sneers
for he is bold.

He clinches his fist Like a twisted
snake; Coiling itself, preparing to raise its head, Above
the long grasses of the plain.

I have forgotten how many
times he kissed me, But I cannot forget A swaying
branch--a leaf that fell To earth.

He stands irresolute
Cloaking the light of
his lantern.

Tonight he will either find
new love or a sword-thrust, But his soul is
troubled with ghosts of old regret.

Like vines with crimson
flowers They climb Upwards
Into his heart.

She was a dream of moons, of fluttering handkerchiefs,
Of flying leaves, of parasols, A riddle made to break my heart; The lightest
impulse To her was more dear than the deep-toned temple bell.

She fluttered to my sword-hilt an
instant, And then flew away; But who will spend
all day chasing a butterfly?

Is it a vision
Under the
moonlight?

No, it is only
A beautiful geisha
swaying down the street.

Out of the rings and the bubbles, The curls and the
swirls of the water, Out of the crystalline shower of drops shattered
in play, Her body and her thoughts arose.

Poems are falling from them Swift as the wind
that shakes the lance-like bamboo leaves; The stars close around like bubbles
Stirred by the silver oars of poems passing.

Beware, for the
dying vine can hold The
strongest oak.

Only by
cutting at the root Can love
be altered.

Late in the night A
rosy glimmer yet defies
the darkness.

But the evening is growing late, The blinds are
being lowered; She who held your heart and charmed you Is only
a rosy glimmer of flame remembered.

Rain rattles on the pavement, Puddles
stand in the bluish stones; Afar in the
Yoshiwara Is she who holds my heart.

Alas, the torn lantern
of my hope Trembles and sputters
in the rain.

I saw him pass at twilight;
He was a dark cloud travelling Over
palace roofs With one claw drooping.

One dainty
thrust, no more Than
this, he needs.

His heart is like a wind Torn between cloud
and butterfly; Whether he will roll passively to
one, Or chase endlessly the other.

My heart is broken and mournful
As rain heard beating Far off in the distance
While earth is parched more near.

He only can bow to men Lofty as a god
To those beneath him, Who has taken sins and sorrows And whose deathless spirit
leaps Beneath them like a golden carp in the torrent.

But the laughing rains
of spring Will break the weak
green shoots of their love.

His will grow a towering
stalk, Hers, a cowering flower
under it.

Would that the rains
of all the winters Might wash
away my grief!

The cranes have come back to the temple,
The winds are flapping the flags about, Through a
flute of reeds I will blow a song.

Chrysanthemums
bending Before the
wind.

Chrysanthemums
wavering In the black
choked grasses.

The wind frowns at them, He
tears off a green and orange stalk
of broken chrysanthemum.

The chrysanthemums spread
their flattered heads, And scurry
off before the wind.

Storm-birds of autumn With draggled wings: Sleet-beaten, wind-tattered, snow-frozen, Stopping
in sheer weariness Between the gnarled red pine trees Twisted in doubt and
despair; Whence do you come, pilgrims, Over what snow fields?

To what southern province
Hidden behind dim peaks,
would you go?

"Too long were the telling Wherefore
we set out; And where we will find rest
Only the Gods may tell.

Only beyond the still grey shoji For the
breadth of innumerable countries, Is the sea with
ships asleep In the blue-black starless night.

A squall
has struck the sea
afar off.

You can feel it quiver Over the paper
parasol With which she shields her face; In the drawn-together skirts
of her robes, As she turns to meet it.

Windy evening of autumn, By the
grey-green swirling river, People are resting like still boats Tugging
uneasily at their cramped chains.

Some are moving slowly Like the easy winds: Brown-blue,
dull-green, the villages in the distance Sleep on the banks of the river:
The waters sullenly clash and murmur.

The chatter of the
passersby, Is dulled beneath
the grey unquiet sky.

The green and violet peacocks Through
the golden dusk Showered upon them from the vine-hung lanterns,
Stately, nostalgically, Parade.

I will scrawl
on the walls of
the night Faces.

Leering, sneering, scowling, threatening faces;
Weeping, twisting, yelling, howling faces; Faces fixed in a contortion
between a scream and a laugh, Meaningless faces.

I will cover the walls of night With
faces, Till you do not know If these faces
are but masks, or you the masks for them.

Faces too grotesque for laughter, Faces
too shattered by pain for tears, Faces of such ugliness
That the ugliness grows beauty.

They will haunt you morning,
evening, Burning, burning, ever
returning.

Their own infamy creating,
Till you strike at life and hate it, Burn
your soul up so in hating.

I will scrawl on the
walls of the night Faces, Pitiless,
Flaring, Staring.

The seasons passed for her, Like
pale iris wilting, Or peonies flying
to ribbons before the storm-gusts.

The sombre
pine-tops waited until
the seasons had passed.

My beloved is like blue smoke that
rises In long slow planes, And wavers Over the
dark paths of old gardens long neglected.

There was a city living here long ago, Of
all that city There is only one stone left half-buried in the marsh, With
characters upon it which no one now can read.

In my heart is
the sorrow Of years like
red leaves buried in snow.

Girls will laugh and scatter
cherry petals, Sometimes they will rest
in the twisted pine-trees' shade.

If one presses her warm lips to
this tablet The dust of my body will feel a
thrill, deep down in the silent earth.

The sky spreads out its poor array Of tattered
flags, Saffron and rose Over the weary huddle of housetops
Smoking their evening pipes in silence.

The city gleams with lights
this evening Like loud and yawning
laughter from red lips.

As the fish that leaps from the river, As the dropping
of a November leaf at twilight, As the faint flicker of lightning down the
southern sky, So I saw beauty, far away.

I dreamed I caught your loveliness In little
silver jars: And when you died I opened them, And
there was only soot within.

Rain fell so softly, in the
evening, I almost thought it was
the trees that were talking.

Cities are the toy-boxes Time plays
with: And there are often many doll-houses
Of which the dolls are lost.

A poet's moods:
Fluttering butterflies
in the rain.

Grass moves in the
wind, My soul is
backwards blown.

Land, green-brown; Sea,
brown-grey; Island, dull peacock
blue; Sky, stone-grey.

A bell in the fog Creeps out
echoing faintly The pale broad flashes
Of vibrating twilight, Faded gold.

There is a goddess who
walks shrouded by day: At night she throws
her blue veil over the earth.

Men only see her
naked glory through the little
holes in the veil.

An old courtyard
Hidden away In the
afternoon.

Grey walks, Mossy stones, Copper carp swimming
lazily, And beyond, A faint toneless hissing
echo of rain That tears at my heart.

Here I am, an old man
in a dry month, Being read to
by a boy, waiting for rain.

I was neither at the hot gates Nor
fought in the warm rain Nor knee deep in the salt marsh,
heaving a cutlass, Bitten by flies, fought.

My house is a decayed house, And the jew squats on
the window sill, the owner, Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.

The goat coughs at night
in the field overhead; Rocks, moss,
stonecrop, iron, merds.

The woman keeps the kitchen,
makes tea, Sneezes at evening, poking
the peevish gutter.

I an old
man, A dull head among windy
spaces.

Signs are taken
for
wonders.

"We would see a sign": The
word within a word, unable to speak
a word, Swaddled with darkness.

In the juvescence of the year Came Christ the tiger In
depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas, To be eaten, to be
divided, to be drunk Among whispers; by Mr.

Vacant
shuttles
Weave the wind.

I have no ghosts, An old
man in a draughty house Under
a windy knob.

After
such knowledge,
what forgiveness?

Think now History has many cunning
passages, contrived corridors And issues, deceives with
whispering ambitions, Guides us by vanities.

Think now She gives when our attention is
distracted And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving.

Gives too late What's not believed
in, or if still believed, In memory
only, reconsidered passion.

Gives too soon Into weak hands, what's
thought can be dispensed with Till the
refusal propagates a fear.

Think Neither
fear nor courage
saves us.

Unnatural
vices Are fathered by our
heroism.

These tears are
shaken from
the wrath-bearing tree.

The tiger
springs in
the new year.

Us
he
devours.

Think at last We have
not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house.

Think at last I have not made this show
purposelessly And it is not by any
concitation Of the backward devils.

I would meet
you upon this
honestly.

I that was near your heart was
removed therefrom To lose beauty in terror,
terror in inquisition.

I have lost my passion: why
should I need to keep it Since what is kept
must be adulterated?

I have lost my sight, smell,
hearing, taste and touch: How should I use
it for your closer contact?

These with a thousand small deliberations Protract the profit
of their chilled delirium, Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled, With pungent sauces,
multiply variety In a wilderness of mirrors.

What will the spider do,
Suspend its operations, will
the weevil Delay?

De Bailhache,
Fresca,
Mrs.

Cammel, whirled Beyond the
circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms.

Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in
a dry season.

--so the countess passed on until she
came through the little park, where Niobe presented her
with a cabinet, and so departed.

Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel; Princess Volupine
arrived, They were together, and he fell.

Defunctive music under sea Passed
seaward with the passing bell Slowly: the God
Hercules Had left him, that had loved him well.

The horses, under the
axletree Beat up the dawn from
Istria With even feet.

Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water
all the day.

But this or such was Bleistein's way: A
saggy bending of the knees And elbows, with the palms
turned out, Chicago Semite Viennese.

The smoky
candle end of time
Declines.

On the
Rialto
once.

The rats are
underneath
the piles.

The jew
is underneath
the lot.

Lights, lights, She
entertains Sir
Ferdinand Klein.

Who clipped the lion's
wings And flea'd his rump and
pared his claws?

Thought Burbank,
meditating on Time's
ruins, and the seven laws.

And the trees about me, Let them be dry
and leafless; let the rocks Groan with continual surges;
and behind me Make all a desolation.

Look,
look,
wenches!

Paint me a cavernous waste shore Cast in
the unstilted Cyclades, Paint me the bold anfractuous
rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

Display me Aeolus above
Reviewing the insurgent gales Which tangle Ariadne's
hair And swell with haste the perjured sails.

Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme), Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.

Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base, Knows the female
temperament And wipes the suds around his face.

(The lengthened shadow of a man Is history,
said Emerson Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).

Tests the razor
on his leg Waiting until
the shriek subsides.

The epileptic
on the bed Curves backward, clutching
at her sides.

The ladies of the corridor Find themselves involved, disgraced, Call
witness to their principles And deprecate the lack of taste Observing that
hysteria Might easily be misunderstood; Mrs.

Turner intimates
It does the house no
sort of good.

But Doris, towelled from the bath, Enters
padding on broad feet, Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.

Pipit sate upright in her chair Some distance
from where I was sitting; Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Her grandfather and great great aunts, Supported on the
mantelpiece An Invitation to the Dance.

I shall not want Honour in Heaven For
I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with
Coriolanus And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven For
I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond: We two shall lie together,
lapt In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven, Lucretia
Borgia shall be my Bride; Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit's experience could provide.

But where is the penny
world I bought To eat with Pipit
behind the screen?

The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder's Green; Where are
the eagles and the trumpets?

Buried
beneath some
snow-deep Alps.

Over buttered scones and
crumpets Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.

's ["ABC's" signifes
endemic teashops, found
in all parts of London.

The initials
signify "Aerated
Bread Company, Limited.

IGNATII
AD
TRALLIANOS.

And when this epistle is read
among you, cause that it be read also in
the church of the Laodiceans.

The broad-backed hippopotamus Rests on
his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm
to us He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, Susceptible
to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For
it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err In
compassing material ends, While the True Church need never
stir To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach The
mango on the mango-tree; But fruits of pomegranate and
peach Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice Betrays
inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day Is passed in
sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious
way- The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing Ascending
from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him
shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall
be seen Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow, By
all the martyr'd virgins kiss, While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

" Mais alors,
tu as ton
vautour!

Webster was much possessed by death And
saw the skull beneath the skin; And breastless creatures under
ground Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs
instead of balls Stared from the
sockets of the eyes!

He knew that thought clings
round dead limbs Tightening its
lusts and luxuries.

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye Is
underlined for emphasis; Uncorseted, her friendly
bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm; But our lot crawls between
dry ribs To keep our metaphysics warm.

Look, look, master,
here comes two religious
caterpillars.

The
Jew of
Malta.

Polyphiloprogenitive
The sapient sutlers of the Lord
Drift across the window-panes.

In the
beginning was
the Word.

A painter of the Umbrian
school Designed upon a gesso ground The nimbus
of the Baptized God.

The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the
water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above
the painter set The Father and the Paraclete.

Under the penitential gates
Sustained by staring Seraphim Where the souls of the devout
Burn invisible and dim.

Along the garden-wall the bees With hairy
bellies pass between The staminate and pistilate,
Blest office of the epicene.

Sweeney shifts from ham
to ham Stirring the water
in his bath.

The masters of
the subtle schools Are controversial,
polymath.

[Greek text inserted here] Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh, The zebra stripes along
his jaw Swelling to maculate giraffe.

Oh, do
not ask, "What
is it?

" Let us
go and make our
visit.

In the room the women
come and go Talking of
Michelangelo.

And indeed there
will be time To wonder,
"Do I dare?

" Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!

") My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly
to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple
pin-- (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!

") Do I dare
Disturb the
universe?

In a minute there is
time For decisions and revisions
which a minute will reverse.

So how
should I
presume?

And
how should I
presume?

And I have known the arms already, known
them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!

) Is it perfume
from a dress That makes me
so digress?

Arms that lie along
a table, or wrap
about a shawl.

And
should I then
presume?

And how should
I
begin?

I should have been a pair
of ragged claws Scuttling across
the floors of silent seas.

And the
afternoon, the evening,
sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long
fingers,
Asleep.

or
it
malingers.

Stretched on the
floor, here beside
you and me.

Should I, after tea and
cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the
moment to its crisis?

-- It is impossible
to say just what
I mean!

I
grow
old.

I shall wear
the bottoms of my
trousers rolled.

Shall I
part my
hair behind?

Do I
dare to eat
a peach?

I shall wear white flannel
trousers, and walk upon
the beach.

I have heard
the mermaids singing,
each to each.

I do
not think that they will sing
to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on
the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of
the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till
human voices wake us, and we drown.

Thou hast committed-- Fornication:
but that was in another country And besides,
the wench is dead.

We have been, let us say,
to hear the latest Pole Transmit the Preludes,
through his hair and finger-tips.

"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul Should
be resurrected only among friends Some two or three, who will not touch the
bloom That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.

" --And so the conversation slips Among velleities
and carefully caught regrets Through attenuated tones of
violins Mingled with remote cornets And begins.

How keen
you
are!

) To find a friend who has these
qualities, Who has, and gives Those
qualities upon which friendship lives.

How much it means that
I say this to you-- Without
these friendships--life, what cauchemar!

" --Let us take the air, in a tobacco
trance, Admire the monuments Discuss the late events,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.

Then sit for half
an hour and
drink our bocks.

II Now that lilacs are in bloom She
has a bowl of lilacs in her room And twists
one in her fingers while she talks.

" I smile,
of course, And go on drinking
tea.

"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My
buried life, and Paris in the Spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and
find the world To be wonderful and youthful, after all.

You are invulnerable,
you have no Achilles'
heel.

You will go on, and when you
have prevailed You can say: at this point
many a one has failed.

But what have I, but
what have I, my friend, To give you,
what can you receive from me?

Only the friendship
and the sympathy Of one about to
reach her journey's end.

I shall sit
here, serving
tea to friends.

" I take my hat: how can
I make a cowardly amends
For what she has said to me?

You will see me any
morning in the park Reading the comics
and the sporting page.

Particularly I
remark An English countess
goes upon the stage.

A Greek was murdered
at a Polish dance, Another
bank defaulter has confessed.

Are these
ideas right
or wrong?

"And so you are
going abroad; and when
do you return?

But that's
a useless
question.

You hardly know when
you are coming back, You will
find so much to learn.

" My smile falls
heavily among
the bric-à-brac.

"Perhaps
you can write
to me.

" My self-possession flares up for
a second; This is as
I had reckoned.

"I have been wondering
frequently of late (But our beginnings
never know our ends!

) Why we
have not developed into
friends.

" I feel like one who smiles, and
turning shall remark Suddenly, his
expression in a glass.

My self-possession gutters;
we are really
in the dark.

"For everybody said
so, all our friends, They all were sure our
feelings would relate So closely!

I myself
can hardly
understand.

We must
leave it now
to fate.

You will
write, at any
rate.

Perhaps
it is not
too late.

" And I must borrow
every changing shape
To find expression.

dance, dance Like a dancing
bear, Cry like a parrot, chatter
like an ape.

Let us take the
air, in a tobacco
trance-- Well!

Would she not
have the advantage,
after all?

This music is successful with
a "dying fall" Now that we talk of dying--
And should I have the right to smile?

I The winter evening
settles down With smell of steaks
in passageways.

The burnt-out
ends of smoky
days.

And then the
lighting of
the lamps.

II The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer From the sawdust-trampled street With all its
muddy feet that press To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades That time
resumes, One thinks of all the hands That are raising
dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely
gentle Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman Who hesitates toward you in
the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin.

You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner
of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.

A broken spring in a factory
yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has
left Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two, The street-lamp said, "Remark the cat which
flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And
devours a morsel of rancid butter.

" So the hand of the child,
automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a
toy that was running along the quay.

I could see
nothing behind that
child's eye.

Half-past three, The lamp
sputtered, The lamp muttered
in the dark.

She smooths
the hair of
the grass.

The moon
has lost her
memory.

The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And
dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets And female smells in shuttered rooms
And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.

" The lamp said, "Four
o'clock, Here is the number
on the door.

You have the key, The
little lamp spreads a ring
on the stair, Mount.

The bed is open; the
tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the
door, sleep, prepare for life.

" The last twist
of the
knife.

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street I am aware of the damp
souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The readers of the Boston
Evening Transcript Sway in the wind
like a field of ripe corn.

" Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden
aunt, And lived in a small house near a fashionable square Cared
for by servants to the number of four.

Now when she died there was silence
in heaven And silence at her
end of the street.

The shutters were drawn and the undertaker
wiped his feet-- He was aware that this sort of
thing had occurred before.

The dogs were handsomely
provided for, But shortly afterwards
the parrot died too.

The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
And the footman sat upon the dining-table Holding the second housemaid on his knees--
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.

Miss Nancy Ellicott Strode across the hills
and broke them, Rode across the hills and broke them-- The barren New England
hills-- Riding to hounds Over the cow-pasture.

Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked And danced all the
modern dances; And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt
about it, But they knew that it was modern.

Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, The army
of unalterable law.

Apollinax visited
the United States His laughter tinkled
among the teacups.

I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure
among the birch-trees, And of Priapus in the shrubbery Gaping
at the lady in the swing.

In the
palace of
Mrs.

Phlaccus, at Professor
Channing-Cheetah's He laughed like an
irresponsible foetus.

I looked
for the head of
Mr.

Apollinax rolling under
a chair Or grinning over a screen
With seaweed in its hair.

I heard the beat of centaur's hoofs over
the hard turf As his dry and passionate talk
devoured the afternoon.

"He is a
charming man"--"But after all
what did he mean?

He must be unbalanced,"--
"There was something he said that
I might have challenged.

" Of
dowager
Mrs.

Phlaccus, and
Professor and
Mrs.

Cheetah I remember
a slice of lemon, and a
bitten macaroon.

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved
in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only
accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill.

I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each
momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns
of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles.

" I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated
my attention with careful subtlety to this end.

I observe: "Our
sentimental
friend the moon!

Or possibly (fantastic, I confess) It may be Prester
John's balloon Or an old battered lantern hung aloft To
light poor travellers to their distress.

" She then:
"How you
digress!

" And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys That
exquisite nocturne, with which we explain The night and moonshine; music which
we seize To body forth our vacuity.

" She then:
"Does this refer
to me?

" "Oh no, it is
I who am
inane.

" "You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute, Giving
our vagrant moods the slightest twist!

With your air indifferent and
imperious At a stroke our mad poetics
to confute--" And--"Are we then so serious?

" O quam te
memorem
Virgo.

I should find Some way incomparably
light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and
faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled
my imagination many days, Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.

And I wonder
how they should have been
together!

I should
have lost a gesture
and a pose.

Sometimes these cogitations
still amaze The troubled midnight and
the noon's repose.

In winter I
get up at night, And dress
by yellow candle light.

In summer quite the
other way, I have to go
to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see The
birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's
feet, Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you, When
all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much
to play, To have to go to bed by day?

All night long and every night, When my
mamma puts out the light I see the people marching
by, As plain as day, before my eye.

Armies and emperors and kings, All
carrying different kinds of things, And marching in
so grand a way, You never saw the like by day.

So fine a show was never seen At
the great circus on the green; For every kind
beast and man Is marching in that caravan.

At first they move a little slow, But still
the faster on they go, And still beside them close I
keep Until we reach the Town of Sleep.

Three of us afloat
in the meadow by
the swing.

Three of us
aboard in the basket
on the lea.

Winds are in the air, they are blowing
in the spring, And waves are on the meadow
like the waves there are at sea.

Where shall we adventure,
to-day that we're afloat, Wary of the weather
and steering by a star?

Shall it be to Africa,
a-steering of the boat, To Providence, or
Babylon, or off to Malabar?

but here's a squadron
a-rowing on the sea-- Cattle on the
meadow a-charging with a roar!

Quick, and we'll escape them, they're as
mad as they can be, The wicket is the harbor
and the garden is the shore.

The coach is at the door at last;
The eager children, mounting fast And kissing hands,
in chorus sing: Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

To house and garden, field and lawn,
The meadow-gates we swung upon, To pump and stable, tree
and swing, Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

And fare you well for evermore, O
ladder at the hayloft door, O hayloft where the cobwebs
cling, Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

Crack goes the whip, and off we go; The
trees and houses smaller grow; Last, round the woody
turn we swing: Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had
two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me
lay To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go, With different
uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes, through the hills.

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets All up
and down among the sheets; Or brought my trees and houses
out, And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still That
sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and
plain The pleasant Land of Counterpane.

Come up
here, O
dusty feet!

The lights from the parlor and kitchen shone out Through the
blinds and the windows and bars; And high over head and all moving
about, There were thousands of millions of stars.

We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back-bedroom chairs, And filled it full of sofa pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.

We sailed along for days and days, And
had the very best of plays; But Tom fell out and hurt
his knee, So there was no one left but me.

Bring the
comb and play upon
it!

Marching,
here we
come!

Willie cocks
his highland bonnet, Johnnie
beats the drum.

Mary Jane commands the party,
Peter leads the rear; Feet in time, alert and
hearty, Each a Grenadier!

All in the most martial manner
Marching double-quick; While the napkin like a
banner Waves upon the stick!

Here's enough of fame
and pillage, Great
commander Jane!

Now that we've been
round the village, Let's go
home again.

Dark brown is
the river, Golden
is the sand.

It flows along
for ever, With trees on either
hand.

Green leaves a-floating, Castles
of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?

On goes the river And out
past the mill, Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river, A
hundred miles or more, Other little
children Shall bring my boats ashore.

Through all the pleasant meadow-side
The grass grew shoulder-high, Till the shining scythes went far and
wide And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops
They led in wagons home; And they piled them here
in mountain-tops For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, Mount Eagle
and Mount High;-- The mice that in these mountains dwell,
No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there,
O what a place for play, With the sweet, the dim, the
dusty air, The happy hills of hay!

Whenever Auntie
moves around Her dresses make
a curious sound.

They trail behind
her up the floor, And trundle
after through the door.

The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart: She gives me cream with all
her might, To eat with apple-tart.

She wanders lowing here and there, And
yet she cannot stray, All in the pleasant open
air, The pleasant light of day.

And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers, She walks among the
meadow grass And eats the meadow flowers.

Up into the
cherry tree Who should climb
but little me?

I held the trunk
with both my hands And looked abroad
on foreign lands.

I saw the next door garden lie, Adorned
with flowers, before my eye, And many pleasant places
more That I had never seen before.

I saw the dimpling river pass And
be the sky's blue looking-glass; The dusty roads go up
and down With people tramping into town.

If I could find a higher tree Farther
and farther I should see, To where the grown-up river slips
Into the sea among the ships.

To where the roads on either hand Lead
onward into fairy land, Where all the children dine
at five, And all the playthings come alive.

Every night my prayers I say, And
get my dinner every day; And every
day that I've been good I get an orange after food.

The child that is not clean and neat, With
lots of toys and things to eat, He is a naughty child, I'm
sure-- Or else his dear papa is poor.

My holes were hollow like a
cup, In every hole the sea came
up, Till it could hold no more.

All by myself I have to go, With
none to tell me what to do-- All alone beside
the streams And up the mountain-sides of dreams.

The strangest things are there for me, Both
things to eat and things to see, And many frightening
sights abroad Till morning in the Land of Nod.

Try as I like to find the way, I
never can get back by day, Nor can remember plain and
clear The curious music that I hear.

Whenever the moon and stars are
set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the
dark and wet, A man goes riding by.

Late in the night when the
fires are out, Why does he gallop
and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low
and loud, By at the gallop goes he.

By at the gallop he
goes, and then By he comes back at
the gallop again.

A birdie with a yellow bill Hopped
up on the window sill, Cocked his shining eye
and said: 'Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?

' The rain is
raining all
around.

It falls on field and
tree, It rains on the umbrellas here,
And on the ships at sea.

Little Indian, Sioux
or Crow, Little frosty Eskimo, Little
Turk or Japanee, O!

don't you wish
that you
were me?

You have seen the scarlet trees And the
lions over seas; You have eaten ostrich eggs,
And turned the turtles off their legs.

Such a life is very fine, But it's
not so nice as mine: You must often, as you trod,
Have wearied _not_ to be abroad.

You have curious things to eat,
I am fed on proper meat; You must dwell beyond
the foam, But I am safe and live at home.

When I am grown to man's estate
I shall be very proud and great, And tell the other
girls and boys Not to meddle with my toys.

I have a little shadow that
goes in and out with me, And what can be the
use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me, from
the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before
me, when I jump into my bed.

He hasn't got a notion of how
children ought to play, And can only make a
fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward
you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie
as that shadow sticks to me!

The sun is not a-bed when I At night
upon my pillow lie; Still round the earth his way
he takes, And morning after morning makes.

While here at home in shining day, We round
the sunny garden play, Each little Indian sleepy-head
Is being kissed and put to bed.

And when at eve I rise from tea, Day dawns
beyond the Atlantic Sea; And all the children in the
West Are getting up and being dressed.

Smooth it slides upon
its travel, Here a wimple, there a gleam--
O the clean gravel!

O the
smooth
stream!

Sailing blossoms, silver fishes,
Paven pools as clear as air-- How a
child wishes To live down there!

See the rings pursue each other;
All below grows black as night, Just as if mother
Had blown out the light!

Patience, children, just a minute--
See the spreading circles die; The stream
and all in it Will clear by-and-by.

Of speckled eggs the birdie sings
And nests among the trees; The sailor sings of
ropes and things In ships upon the seas.

The children sing in far Japan, The
children sing in Spain; The organ with the organ
man Is singing in the rain.

My bed is like a little boat;
Nurse helps me in when I embark; She girds me in
my sailor's coat And starts me in the dark.

At night, I go on board and say Good
night to all my friends on shore; I shut my eyes and sail
away And see and hear no more.

And sometimes things to bed I take, As
prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice
of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two.

All night across the dark we steer: But
when the day returns at last Safe in my room, beside
the pier, I find my vessel fast.

Over the borders, a sin without pardon, Breaking
the branches and crawling below, Out through the breach in the wall of the
garden, Down by the banks of the river, we go.

Here is the mill with the humming of thunder, Here is
the weir with the wonder of foam, Here is the sluice with the race running
under-- Marvelous places, though handy to home!

Years may go by, and the
wheel in the river Wheel as it wheels
for us, children, to-day.

Wheel and keep roaring and
foaming for ever Long after
all of the boys are away.

Home from the Indies and home from the ocean, Heroes
and soldiers we all shall come home; Still we shall find the old mill wheel in
motion, Turning and churning that river to foam.

You with the bean that I gave when we quarreled, I
with your marble of Saturday last, Honored and old and all gaily
apparelled, Here we shall meet and remember the past.

When children are playing alone
on the green, In comes the playmate
that never was seen.

When children are happy and
lonely and good, The Friend of the Children
comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him and nobody saw, His is a
picture you never could draw, But he's sure to be present, abroad or at
home, When children are happy and playing alone.

I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the
birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies'
skirts across the grass-- O wind, a-blowing all day long!

O wind,
that sings so
loud a song!

I saw the different
things you did, But always you
yourself you hid.

I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all-- O wind, a-blowing all day
long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so
strong and cold, O blower,
are you young or old?

Are you a beast of
field and tree, Or just a stronger
child than me?

O wind, a-blowing all
day long, O wind, that sings
so loud a song!

I woke before the morning, I
was happy all the day, I never said an ugly
word, but smiled and stuck to play.

And now at last the sun is going
down behind the wood, And I am very
happy, for I know that I've been good.

My bed is waiting cool and fresh,
with linen smooth and fair, And I must off to
sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the
sun arise, No ugly dream shall fright my
mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

But slumber hold me tightly, till
I waken in the dawn, And hear the thrushes
singing in the lilacs round the lawn.

Children, you are very little, And
your bones are very brittle; If you would grow great and stately,
You must try to walk sedately.

You must still be bright and quiet, And content
with simple diet; And remain, through all bewild'ring,
Innocent and honest children.

Happy hearts and happy faces, Happy
play in grassy places-- That was how, in ancient ages,
Children grew to kings and sages.

But the unkind and the unruly, And
the sort who eat unduly, They must never hope for
glory-- Theirs is quite a different story!

Cruel children, crying babies, All grow
up as geese and gabies, Hated, as their age
increases, By their nephews and their nieces.

Summer fading, winter comes-- Frosty
mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter
rooks, And the picture story-books.

Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the
flowing brooks In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by
Wait upon the childrens' eye, Sheep and shepherds, trees and
crooks, In the picture story-books.

We may see how all things are,
Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies'
looks, In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your
praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in
nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books?

How do you like to
go up in a swing, Up in
the air so blue?

Oh, I do think it the
pleasantest thing Ever
a child can do!

It is very nice to think The world
is full of meat and drink With little children saying
grace In every Christian kind of place.

The lamps now glitter down the street; Faintly
sound the falling feet And the blue even slowly
falls About the garden trees and walls.

Now in the falling of the gloom The
red fire paints the empty room; And warmly on the roof
it looks, And flickers on the backs of books.

Armies march by tower and spire Of
cities blazing, in the fire;-- Till as I gaze with staring
eyes, The armies fade, the lustre dies.

Then once again the glow returns;
Again the phantom city burns; And down
the red-hot valley, lo!

The phantom
armies marching
go!

Blinking embers, tell me true Where are
those armies marching to, And what the burning city
is That crumbles in your furnaces!

Down by a shining water
well I found a very little dell, No
higher than my head.

The heather and the gorse
about In summer bloom were coming out,
Some yellow and some red.

I called the little pool a
sea; The little hills were big to me;
For I am very small.

I made a boat, I made
a town, I searched the caverns up and
down, And named them one and all.

And all about was mine,
I said, The little sparrows overhead,
The little minnows, too.

This was the world and I was
king; For me the bees came by to sing,
For me the swallows flew.

I played there were no deeper
seas, Nor any wider plains than these,
Nor other kings than me.

At last I heard my mother
call Out from the house at evenfall, To
call me home to tea.

And I must rise and leave
my dell, And leave my dimpled water well,
And leave my heather blooms.

and as my home I neared, How
very big my nurse appeared, How
great and cool the rooms!

All round the house is the jet-black night; It
stares through the window-pane; It crawls in the corners, hiding from the
light, And it moves with the moving flame.

Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum, With
the breath of Bogie in my hair, And all round the candle the crooked
shadows come, And go marching along up the stair.

The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the
lamp, The shadow of the child that goes to bed-- All the wicked shadows
coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, With the black night overhead.

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty,
fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two;
and then, A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies, At
morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my
nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled,
explore The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in
my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face and
blows Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows
my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill
and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

I can in the
sorrel sit Where the
ladybird alit.

I can climb the jointed grass; And on high
See the greater swallows pass In the sky, And the round sun
rolling by Heeding no such things as I.

Through that forest I can pass Till, as in a
looking-glass, Humming fly and daisy tree And my tiny self I see, Painted
very clear and neat On the rain-pool at my feet.

Should a leaflet come to land Drifting
near to where I stand, Straight I'll board that tiny
boat Round the rain-pool sea to float.

Little thoughtful creatures sit On
the grassy coasts of it; Little things with lovely
eyes See me sailing with surprise.

Some are clad in armour
green-- (These have sure to battle
been!

)-- Some are pied with ev'ry hue, Black
and crimson, gold and blue; Some have wings and swift are
gone; But they all look kindly on.

Last, to the chamber where I lie My
fearful footsteps patter nigh, And come from out the cold and
gloom Into my warm and cheerful room.

There, safe arrived, we turn about To keep
the coming shadows out, And close the happy door at
last On all the perils that we passed.

Then, when mamma goes by to bed, She shall
come in with tip-toe tread, And see me lying warm and
fast And in the Land of Nod at last.

When the golden day is done, Through
the closing portal, Child and garden, flower
and sun, Vanish all things mortal.

As the blinding showers fall,
As the rays diminish, Under evening's cloak they
all Roll away and vanish.

Garden darkened, daisy shut,
Child in bed, they slumber-- Glow-worm in the highway
rut, Mice among the lumber.

In the darkness houses shine, Parents
move with candles Till on all, the night divine
Turns the bedroom handles.

Till at last the day begins
In the east a-breaking, In the hedges and
the whins Sleeping birds a-waking.

In the darkness shapes of things, Houses,
trees and hedges, Clearer grow; and sparrow's
wings Beat on window ledges.

These shall wake the yawning maid,
She the door shall open-- Finding dew on garden
glade And the morning broken.

There my garden grows again Green and
rosy painted, As at eve behind the
pane From my eyes it fainted.

Just as it was shut away,
Toy-like, in the even, Here I see it glow with
day Under glowing heaven.

Every path and every
plot, Every bush of roses, Every
blue forget-me-not Where the dew reposes.

they cry, 'the day is come On the
smiling valleys; We have beat the morning
drum; Playmate, join your allies!

' Birds all the sunny day Flutter
and quarrel Here in the arbor-like
Tent of the laurel.

Here in the fork The brown
nest is seated; Four little blue eggs
The mother keeps heated.

While we stand watching her, Staring
like gabies, Safe in each egg are the
Bird's little babies.

Soon the frail eggs they shall Chip,
and upspringing Make all the April
woods Merry with singing.

Younger than we are, O children,
and frailer, Soon in blue air they'll be,
Singer and sailor.

We, so much older, Taller
and stronger, We shall look down on
the Birdies no longer.

They shall go flying With
musical speeches High over head in
the Tops of the beeches.

In spite of our wisdom
And sensible talking, We on our feet
must go Plodding and walking.

All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse, Bachelor's
buttons, Lady's smock, And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things, Fairy
woods where the wild bee wings, Tiny trees for tiny
dames-- These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs Shady
fairies weave a house; Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, Where
the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees, But the
fairest woods are these; Where if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, All
by himself and gathering brambles; Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!

Here is a cart run away in the road Lumping
along with man and load; And here is a mill and there is a
river, Each a glimpse and gone forever!

This whistle
we made (and how clearly
it sounds!

) By the side of a
field at the end
of the grounds.

Of a branch of a plane, with a
knife of my own, It was nursie who
made it, and nursie alone!

What are you
able to build
with your blocks?

Castles and
palaces, temples
and docks.

Rain may keep raining and others
go roam, But I can be happy
and building at home.

This one is sailing and
that one is moored: Hark to the song
of the sailors on board!

And see the steps of my
palace, the kings Coming and going
with presents and things!

Now I have
done with it, down
let it go!

All in
a moment the town
is laid low.

Block upon block lying
scattered and free, What is there left of
my town by the sea?

The gardener does not love to talk, He makes
me keep the gravel walk; And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row Where
no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots, I see
him dig, Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers,
green, red and blue, Nor wishes
to be spoken to.

He digs the flowers
and cuts the hay, And never
seems to want to play.

summer goes, And winter comes
with pinching toes, When in the garden bare
and brown You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit
by these garden days, O how much wiser you would be To
play at Indian wars with me!

Here's peace for you,
and surety; here the one
Wisdom -- the truth!

-- "All day the good glad sun Showers love
and labour on you, wine and song; The greenwood laughs,
the wind blows, all day long Till night.

"  And
night ends all
things.

Then shall be No lamp relumed
in heaven, no voices crying, Or changing
lights, or dreams and forms that hover!

(And, heart, for all your sighing,
That gladness and those tears are
over, over.

) And has the truth brought no
new hope at all, Heart, that you're weeping
yet for Paradise?

Do they
still whisper, the
old weary cries?

"'MID YOUTH AND SONG, FEASTING AND CARNIVAL, THROUGH LAUGHTER, THROUGH
THE ROSES, AS OF OLD COMES DEATH, ON SHADOWY AND RELENTLESS FEET, DEATH,
UNAPPEASABLE BY PRAYER OR GOLD; DEATH IS THE END, THE END!

" Proud, then, clear-eyed
and laughing, go to greet
Death as a friend!

Exile of immortality, strongly
wise, Strain through the dark with undesirous eyes
To what may lie beyond it.

Sets your
star, O heart, for
ever!

Yet, behind the night, Waits for
the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some
white tremendous daybreak.

Tenderly, day that I have loved,
I close your eyes, And smooth your quiet
brow, and fold your thin dead hands.

The grey veils
of the half-light deepen;
colour dies.

I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded
sands, Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making Mist-garlanded,
with all grey weeds of the water crowned.

Beyond the shifting cold twilight,
Further than laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming,
There'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands!

But the drear Waste
darkening, and, at length, flame
ultimate on the deep.

Oh, the last fire
-- and you, unkissed, unfriended
there!

Oh, the lone
way's red ending, and we
not there to weep!

(We found you pale and quiet,
and strangely crowned with flowers, Lovely
and secret as a child.

You came with us, Came
happily, hand in hand with the young
dancing hours, High on the downs at dawn!

)  Void now and tenebrous,
The grey sands curve before
me.

From the inland meadows, Fragrant of June and clover, floats
the dark, and fills The hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadows,
And the white silence brims the hollow of the hills.

Close in the nest is folded every
weary wing, Hushed all the joyful voices; and we, who held you dear,
Eastward we turn and homeward, alone, remembering .

Day that I
loved, day that I
loved, the Night is here!

I cower
to the earth, I waking,
I only.

High and cold
thou dreamest, O queen, high-dreaming
and lonely.

And around
me the feet of thy
watchers tread.

There is a rumour and a radiance
of wings above my head, An intolerable
radiance of wings.

All the earth grows fire,
White lips of desire Brushing cool
on the forehead, croon slumbrous things.

Earth fades; and the air
is thrilled with ways, Dewy
paths full of comfort.

from quiet skies In
through the window my
Lord the Sun!

And my eyes Were dazzled and drunk with
the misty gold, The golden glory that drowned and
crowned me Eddied and swayed through the room .

Around me, To left and to right, Hunched
figures and old, Dull blear-eyed scribbling fools, grew fair,
Ringed round and haloed with holy light.

Till the light faded; And they were
but fools again, fools unknowing, Still scribbling,
blear-eyed and stolid immortals.

I'd watched the sorrow of the evening sky,
And smelt the sea, and earth, and the warm clover, And heard
the waves, and the seagull's mocking cry.

And in them all was only
the old cry, That song they always
sing -- "The best is over!

You may remember
now, and think, and sigh, O
silly lover!

" And I was tired and sick that all was over,
And because I, For all my thinking, never could recover
One moment of the good hours that were over.

And I was sorry
and sick, and wished
to die.

Then from the sad west turning wearily, I saw the
pines against the white north sky, Very beautiful, and still, and bending
over Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky.

And there was peace in them; and I Was happy, and
forgot to play the lover, And laughed, and did no longer wish to
die; Being glad of you, O pine-trees and the sky!

Creeps in half wanton,
half asleep, One with a fat
wide hairless face.

He likes love-music that is cheap;
Likes women in a crowded place; And
wants to hear the noise they're making.

His heavy eyelids
droop half-over, Great pouches swing
beneath his eyes.

He listens, thinks himself the
lover, Heaves from his stomach wheezy
sighs; He likes to feel his heart's a-breaking.

His little
lips are bright
with slime.

The
music
swells.

The
women
shiver.

And all the while, in
perfect time, His pendulous
stomach hangs a-shaking.

All the shade
Is rife with magic
and movement.

I stray alone Here
on the edge of silence, half afraid,
Waiting a sign.

In the deep heart of me
The sullen waters swell towards the moon,
And all my tides set seaward.

From inland Leaps a gay fragment of some
mocking tune, That tinkles and laughs and fades along the sand,
And dies between the seawall and the sea.

Song of a tribe of the ancient
Egyptians (The Priests within the Temple) She was wrinkled
and huge and hideous?

She
was our
Mother.

She was
lustful and
lewd?

-- but a
God; we had none
other.

In the day She was hidden and dumb,
but at nightfall moaned in the shade; We shuddered and gave
Her Her will in the darkness; we were afraid.

(The People without) She sent us
pain, And we bowed before Her; She smiled
again And bade us adore Her.

She solaced our woe
And soothed our sighing; And what
shall we do Now God is dying?

(The Priests within) She was
hungry and ate our children;
-- how should we stay Her?

She took our young
men and our maidens; -- ours
to obey Her.

We were loathed and mocked
and reviled of all nations;
that was our pride.

She fed us, protected
us, loved us, and killed
us; now She has died.

(The People without)
She was so strong; But death
is stronger.

She ruled
us long; But Time
is longer.

(Halted around the fire
by night, after moon-set, they sing
this beneath the trees.

) What light of unremembered skies
Hast thou relumed within our eyes,
Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find?

A certain odour on the wind, Thy hidden
face beyond the west, These things have called us; on a quest Older than
any road we trod, More endless than desire.

Far God, Sigh with thy cruel
voice, that fills The soul with longing for dim
hills And faint horizons!

For there come Grey moments of the antient
dumb Sickness of travel, when no song Can cheer us; but
the way seems long; And one remembers.

the beat Of weary
unreturning feet, And songs
of pilgrims unreturning!

The fires we
left are always burning On
the old shrines of home.

Our kin Have built them temples, and therein
Pray to the Gods we know; and dwell In little houses
lovable, Being happy (we remember how!

) And peaceful
even to
death.

O Thou, God of all long desirous
roaming, Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,
And crying after lost desire.

as with fire
Consuming dreams of
other bliss.

(Sung, on one night,
in the cities,
in the darkness.

Ye are sober and dull
through the common day, But
now it is night!

It is shameful
night, and God is
asleep!

(Have you not felt the quick fires that
creep Through the hungry flesh, and the lust of delight,
And hot secrets of dreams that day cannot say?

The house is
dumb; The night calls out
to you.

Down the dim stairs, through
the creaking door, Naked, crawling on hands
and feet -- It is meet!

Ye are men no
longer, but less and
more, Beast and God.

Down the lampless street, By little black ways,
and secret places, In the darkness and mire, Faint laughter
around, and evil faces By the star-glint seen -- ah!

For the darkness whispers
a blind desire, And the fingers
of night are amorous.

Because God put His adamantine fate Between
my sullen heart and its desire, I swore that I would burst the Iron
Gate, Rise up, and curse Him on His throne of fire.

An idle wind blew round
an empty throne And stirred the heavy
curtains on the walls.

Before thy shrine I kneel, an unknown
worshipper, Chanting strange hymns to thee and sorrowful litanies, Incense
of dirges, prayers that are as holy myrrh.

Ah, goddess, on thy throne of tears and faint low
sighs, Weary at last to theeward come the feet that err, And empty
hearts grown tired of the world's vanities.

How fair this cool deep silence to
a wanderer Deaf with the roar of
winds along the open skies!

Sweet, after sting and bitter
kiss of sea-water, The pale Lethean wine
within thy chalices!

(From the train between
Bologna and Milan,
second class.

) Opposite
me two Germans
snore and sweat.

Through sullen
swirling gloom we jolt and
roar.

We have been here for
ever:  even yet A dim watch tells two
hours, two aeons, more.

The windows are
tight-shut and slimy-wet With
a night's foetor.

There are two hours
more; Two hours to dawn and
Milan; two hours yet.

Opposite
me two Germans sweat
and snore.

One of
them wakes, and spits, and
sleeps again.

The
darkness
shivers.

A wan light through
the rain Strikes on our faces,
drawn and white.

Somewhere A new day sprawls; and,
inside, the foul air Is chill, and damp,
and fouler than before.

Out of the nothingness of sleep, The
slow dreams of Eternity, There was a thunder on
the deep: I came, because you called to me.

I broke the Night's primeval bars, I
dared the old abysmal curse, And flashed through ranks of frightened
stars Suddenly on the universe!

The eternal
silences were broken; Hell
became Heaven as I passed.

-- What shall I give you
as a token, A sign that
we have met, at last?

I'll break and forge the stars anew, Shatter
the heavens with a song; Immortal in my love for
you, Because I love you, very strong.

Then only in the empty spaces, Death,
walking very silently, Shall fear the glory of our
faces Through all the dark infinity.

So, clothed about with perfect love, The
eternal end shall find us one, Alone above
the Night, above The dust of the dead gods, alone.

We leave this resting-place
Made fair by one another
for a while.

Now, for a god-speed, one last mad
embrace; The long road then, unlit
by your faint smile.

and you
so far
away!

Oh,
I'll
remember!

each crawling day Will pale a
little your scarlet lips, each mile Dull the
dear pain of your remembered face.

Some day I shall rise and leave my friends And seek
you again through the world's far ends, You whom I found so
fair (Touch of your hands and smell of your hair!

), My only
god in the
days that were.

My eager feet shall find you again, Though
the sullen years and the mark of pain Have changed you wholly; for
I shall know (How could I forget having loved you so?

), In the sad half-light
of evening, The face that was
all my sunrising.

), And I loved you before you were old
and wise, When the flame of youth was strong in your eyes, -- And
my heart is sick with memories.

Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly Into the shade
and loneliness and mire Of the last land!

There, waiting patiently, One day, I think, I'll feel a
cool wind blowing, See a slow light across the Stygian tide, And hear
the Dead about me stir, unknowing, And tremble.

-- And turn, and toss your
brown delightful head Amusedly, among
the ancient Dead.

I said I
splendidly loved
you; it's not true.

Such long swift
tides stir not
a land-locked sea.

On gods or fools the high risk
falls -- on you -- The clean clear bitter-sweet
that's not for me.

Love soars from
earth to ecstasies
unwist.

Love is flung
Lucifer-like from
Heaven to Hell.

Pleasure's
not theirs, nor
pain.

They doubt, and
sigh, And do not love
at all.

Of
these am
I.

or
that foul
you?

But this the strange gods, who had
given so much, To have seen and known
you, this they might not do.

One last shame's spared me, one
black word's unspoken; And I'm alone; and
you have not awoken.

-- One moment,
what it is
to love.

And yet -- the best that either's
known Will change, and wither, and be less, At last, than
comfort, or its own Remembrance.

And when some caress Tendered in habit
(once a flame All heaven sang out to) wakes the shame Unworded, in the
steady eyes We'll have, -- THAT day, what shall we do?

Being so noble,
kill the two Who've reached their
second-best?

Being wise, Break
cleanly off, and
get away.

Follow down
other windier skies
New lures, alone?

Or shall we stay, Since this is all
we've known, content In the lean twilight of such day,
And not remember, not lament?

So I, from paint, stone, tale, and rhyme,
Stuffed love's infinity, And sucked all lovers of all
time To rarify ecstasy.

Helen's the hair shuts out from me
Verona's livid skies; Gypsy the lips I press;
and see Two Antonys in your eyes.

In a cool curving
world he lies And ripples
with dark ecstasies.

There slipping
wave and shore are one, And
weed and mud.

And
all's
one.

Gentle, embracing, quiet,
dun, The world he rests in, world he knows,
Perpetual curving.

Space is no more,
under the mud; His bliss is older
than the sun.

Silent
and straight the waters
run.

The lights, the cries, the
willows dim, And the dark
tide are one with him.

How
can
we find?

how
can we
rest?

how can We,
being gods, win joy, or peace,
being man?

Love's
for
completeness!

No perfection grows 'Twixt leg, and arm, elbow,
and ear, and nose, And joint, and socket; but unsatisfied Sprawling
desires, shapeless, perverse, denied.

How can love triumph, how
can solace be, Where fever turns
toward fever, knee toward knee?

And I
went
on.

For if my echoing footfall slept, Soon a far
whispering there'd be Of a little lonely wind that crept From tree to
tree, and distantly Followed me, followed me.

But the blue vaporous end of
day Brought peace, and pursuit baffled quite,
Where between pine-woods dipped the way.

I turned,
slipped in and
out of sight.

I trod
as quiet as
the night.

The pine-boles kept perpetual
hush; And in the boughs wind never
swirled.

I found a flowering lowly
bush, And bowed, slid in, and sighed and curled, Hidden
at rest from all the world.

I was
safe, and glad,
I knew!

Yet -- with cold heart
and cold wet brows
I lay.

And
the
dark fell.

There grew Meward a sound of shaken
boughs; And ceased, above my intricate house; And
silence, silence, silence found me.

I felt the
unfaltering movement
creep Among the leaves.

They shed around me
Calm clouds of scent, that I did
weep; And stroked my face.

I
fell
asleep.

Breathless, we flung us
on the windy hill, Laughed in the
sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

You said, "Through glory and
ecstasy we pass; Wind, sun, and earth remain, the
birds sing still, When we are old, are old.

"  "And when we die All's over that is ours;
and life burns on Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
-- "Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!

" "We are
Earth's best, that learnt her lesson
here.

Life
is our
cry.

We
have kept
the faith!

" we said; "We shall go
down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!

Proud we were, And
laughed, that had such brave
true things to say.

-- And then you
suddenly cried, and
turned away.

I dreamt I was in love again
With the One Before the Last, And smiled to greet the pleasant
pain Of that innocent young past.

But I jumped to feel how sharp had
been The pain when it did live, How the faded dreams
of Nineteen-ten Were Hell in Nineteen-five.

The boy's woe was as keen and clear, The
boy's love just as true, And the One Before the Last,
my dear, Hurt quite as much as you.

Sickly I pondered how the lover
Wrongs the unanswering tomb, And sentimentalizes
over What earned a better doom.

Gently he tombs the poor dim
last time, Strews pinkish dust above, And
sighs, "The dear dead boyish pastime!

But THIS
-- ah,
God!

" -- Better oblivion hide dead true loves,
Better the night enfold, Than men, to eke the praise
of new loves, Should lie about the old!

bitter
thoughts I had
in plenty.

But here's the worst of
it -- I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty, YOU
ever hurt abit!

The stars, a jolly company, I
envied, straying late and lonely; And cried upon their
revelry: "O white companionship!

You only In love, in
faith unbroken dwell, Friends radiant
and inseparable!

But I, remembering, pitied
well And loved them, who, with lonely light, In empty
infinite spaces dwell, Disconsolate.

For, all the night, I heard
the thin gnat-voices cry, Star to faint
star, across the sky.

He wakes, who never
thought to wake again, Who held
the end was Death.

He opens eyes Slowly, to
one long livid oozing plain Closed down by
the strange eyeless heavens.

He lies; And waits; and once in
timeless sick surmise Through the dead air heaves
up an unknown hand, Like a dry branch.

I thought when
love for you died,
I should die.

Alone, most
strangely, I
live on.

Was Called Ambarvalia Swings the way still by
hollow and hill, And all the world's a song; "She's far," it sings me, "but
fair," it rings me, "Quiet," it laughs, "and strong!

spite of the miles and years between
us, Spite of your chosen part, I do remember;
and I go With laughter in my heart.

So above the little folk that know
not, Out of the white hill-town, High up I clamber; and
I remember; And watch the day go down.

They'll call the news from hill to hill,
Dark and uncomforted, Earth and sky and the winds;
and I Shall know that you are dead.

I shall not hear your trentals, Nor eat
your arval bread; For the kin of you will surely
do Their duty by the dead.

Their little dull greasy
eyes will water; They'll paw you,
and gulp afresh.

They'll sniffle and
weep, and their thoughts will creep Like
flies on the cold flesh.

They will put pence on your grey eyes,
Bind up your fallen chin, And lay you straight, the fools
that loved you Because they were your kin.

They will praise all the bad about you,
And hush the good away, And wonder how they'll do without
you, And then they'll go away.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
And dim and decorous mirth, With ham and sherry, they'll
meet to bury The lordliest lass of earth.

The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving
Behind lone-riding you, The heart so high, the heart so living,
Heart that they never knew.

I shall not hear your trentals, Nor
eat your arval bread, Nor with smug breath tell lies of
death To the unanswering dead.

With snuffle and sniff and
handkerchief, The folk who loved you not Will bury
you, and go wondering Back home.

And
you will
rot.

But laughing and half-way up to heaven,
With wind and hill and star, I yet shall keep, before
I sleep, Your Ambarvalia.

There was a damned
successful Poet; There was
a Woman like the Sun.

And
they
were dead.

They
did not know
it.

They did not
know their time
was done.

They did not know his hymns Were
silence; and her limbs, That had served Love so
well, Dust, and a filthy smell.

So knee to knee they sped
again, And laugh to laugh they ran, I'm
told, Across the streets of Hell .

And then They suddenly felt the wind blow
cold, And knew, so closely pressed, Chill air on lip and breast, And,
with a sick surprise, The emptiness of eyes.

Here, where love's stuff is
body, arm and side Are stabbing-sweet
'gainst chair and lamp and wall.

In every touch more
intimate meanings hide; And flaming
brains are the white heart of all.

Here, million pulses to one centre beat: Closed in by
men's vast friendliness, alone, Two can be drunk with solitude, and
meet On the sheer point where sense with knowing's one.

though the woods are quiet,
and you've heard Night creep along
the hedges.

Never go Where tangled
foliage shrouds the crying bird, And the
remote winds sigh, and waters flow!

For moveless limbs no
pity I crave, That
never were swift!

Still all I prize, Laughter and thought and friends,
I have; No fool to heave luxurious sighs For
the woods and hills that I never knew.

The more
excellent
way's yet mine!

And you Flower-laden come to
the clean white cell, And we talk as ever
-- am I not the same?

With our hearts we love,
immutable, You without
pity, I without shame.

We talk as of old; as of old you go Out
under the sky, and laughing, I know, Flit through the streets, your heart all
me; Till you gain the world beyond the town.

Then -- I fade from your
heart, quietly; And your
fleet steps quicken.

The strong down Smiles you welcome there;
the woods that love you Close lovely and
conquering arms above you.

O ever-moving,
O lithe
and free!

Fast in my linen prison I press
On impassable bars, or emptily
Laugh in my great loneliness.

And still in the white neat bed I strive Most
impotently against that gyve; Being less now than a thought, even,
To you alone with your hills and heaven.

I Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus
broke To Priam's palace, sword in hand, to sate On that adulterous
whore a ten years' hate And a king's honour.

Through red death, and smoke, And cries, and then
by quieter ways he strode, Till the still
innermost chamber fronted him.

He swung his sword, and crashed into
the dim Luxurious bower,
flaming like a god.

High sat white
Helen, lonely
and serene.

He had not remembered that she
was so fair, And that her neck curved down in such
a way; And he felt tired.

He flung the sword away, And
kissed her feet, and knelt before her there, The
perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.

II So
far the
poet.

How should he behold
That journey home, the long
connubial years?

He does not tell you how white Helen
bears Child on legitimate child, becomes
a scold, Haggard with virtue.

Menelaus bold
Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred
Troys 'Twixt noon and supper.

And her golden
voice Got shrill as he
grew deafer.

And
both
were old.

Often he wonders
why on earth he went Troyward, or why
poor Paris ever came.

Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed
and impotent; Her dry shanks twitch
at Paris' mumbled name.

So Menelaus nagged;
and Helen cried; And Paris slept on
by Scamander side.

How should
I
know?

The enormous wheels
of will Drove me cold-eyed on tired
and sleepless feet.

Night was void arms and
you a phantom still, And day your far
light swaying down the street.

As never fool for
love, I starved for you; My throat was dry and
my eyes hot to see.

Your mouth so lying was most
heaven in view, And your remembered
smell most agony.

I felt your hot wrist shiver
And suddenly the mad victory I planned Flashed
real, in your burning bending head.

My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep
river In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand
Quieter than a dead man on a bed.

Day after day you'll sit with him and note The
greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat; As prettiness turns to
pomp, and strength to fat, And love, love, love to habit!

O lithe and free And lightfoot,
that the poor heart cries to see, That's how
I'll see your man and you!

-- But you -- Oh, when
THAT time comes, you'll
be dirty too!

My restless blood now lies a-quiver, Knowing that
always, exquisitely, This April twilight on the river
Stirs anguish in the heart of me.

And all these, like a waiting lover,
Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes, Drift close to me, and
sideways bending Whisper delicious words.

But I Stretch terrible
hands, uncomprehending, Shaken with
love; and laugh; and cry.

And Hatred followed
after, Shrilling madly
down the breeze.

In peace from the wild heart of clamour, A
flower in moonlight, she was there, Was rippling down white ways
of glamour Quietly laid on wave and air.

Her passing
left no
leaf a-quiver.

Pale flowers
wreathed her white,
white brows.

Her feet were
silence on the
river; And "Hush!

" she
said, between
the boughs.

In darkness the loud sea
makes moan; And earth is shaken, and all evils
creep About her ways.

Oh, now
to know you
sleep!

Your magic and your beauty and
your strength, Like hills at noon or sunlight on a
tree, Sleeping prevail in earth and air.

In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night Move
gently round the room, and watch you there.

And still
the darkness ebbs about
your bed.

Quiet, and
strange, and loving-kind,
you sleep.

And holy joy about
the earth is shed; And holiness
upon the deep.

From the candles and dumb shadows,
And the house where love had died, I stole to the vast moonlight
And the whispering life outside.

But I found no lips of comfort, No home
in the moon's light (I, little and lone and frightened In the unfriendly
night), And no meaning in the voices.

Far over the lands and
through The dark, beyond the ocean, I
willed to think of YOU!

For I knew, had you been with me I'd
have known the words of night, Found peace of heart, gone
gladly In comfort of that light.

But ever Desperately
I willed; Till all grew soft and
far And silent .

And suddenly I found you
white and radiant, Sleeping quietly,
Far out through the tides of darkness.

Love," they said,
"is King of Kings, And Triumph
is his crown.

Earth fades in flame before
his wings, And Sun and
Moon bow down.

" -- But that, I knew, would
never do; And Heaven
is all too high.

So whenever I
meet a Queen, I said, I will
not catch her eye.

Love," they said, and "Love," they said, "The gift
of Love is this; A crown of thorns about thy
head, And vinegar to thy kiss!

" -- But Tragedy
is not for me; And I'm content
to be gay.

So whenever I
spied a Tragic Lady, I
went another way.

And so I never feared to see
You wander down the street, Or come across the
fields to me On ordinary feet.

For what they'd never told me of,
And what I never knew; It was that all the
time, my love, Love would be merely you.

Safe in the magic
of my woods I lay, and watched
the dying light.

Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night, Silver
and blue and green were showing.

The spell was broken, the key denied
me And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.

You came and
quacked beside me
in the wood.

You said, "The
view from here is
very good!

" You said, "It's
nice to be alone
a bit!

" And, "How
the days are
drawing out!

You said,
"The sunset's pretty, isn't
it?

I wish
-- I wish that you
were dead!

Lip and eye Flashed on the glory, shone and
cried, Improvident, unmemoried; And fitfully and like
a flame The light of laughter went and came.

Proud in their careless
transience moved The changing
faces that I loved.

Till suddenly, and
otherwhence, I looked upon
your innocence.

For lifted clear and still and strange From
the dark woven flow of change Under a vast and starless sky
I saw the immortal moment lie.

One instant I,
an instant, knew
As God knows all.

And it
and you I, above
Time, oh, blind!

could see
In witless
immortality.

I saw the marble cup; the tea, Hung on
the air, an amber stream; I saw the fire's unglittering
gleam, The painted flame, the frozen smoke.

Light was more
alive
than you.

For suddenly, and
otherwhence, I looked on your
magnificence.

Dazed at length Human
eyes grew, mortal strength Wearied; and
Time began to creep.

Change closed
about me
like a sleep.

Light glinted
on the eyes
I loved.

The cup
was
filled.

The
bodies
moved.

The drifting
petal came
to ground.

The laughter
chimed its perfect
round.

The broken
syllable
was ended.

And I, so certain and so
friended, How could I cloud, or how distress, The heaven
of your unconsciousness?

Or shake at Time's
sufficient spell, Stammering
of lights unutterable?

The eternal holiness
of you, The timeless end, you never knew,
The peace that lay, the light that shone.

You never knew that
I had gone A million miles
away, and stayed A million years.

The laughter played
Unbroken round me;
and the jest Flashed on.

And we that knew the
best Down wonderful hours
grew happier yet.

I sang at heart, and talked, and
eat, And lived from laugh to laugh, I too,
When you were there, and you, and you.

In a flowered dell
the Lady Venus stood,
Amazed with sorrow.

Down the morning one Far golden
horn in the gold of trees and sun Rang
out; and held; and died.

She thought the
wood Grew
quieter.

Wing, and leaf,
and pool of light
Forgot to dance.

Dumb lay the unfalling stream;
Life one eternal instant rose in dream Clear out
of time, poised on a golden height.

Till a swift
terror broke the
abrupt hour.

The gold waves purled
amidst the green above her;
And a bird sang.

With one sharp-taken breath, By sunlit branches and
unshaken flower, The immortal limbs flashed to the human lover,
And the immortal eyes to look on death.

The damned
ship lurched
and slithered.

Quiet and quick My cold gorge rose; the long
sea rolled; I knew I must think hard of something, or be sick;
And could think hard of only one thing -- YOU!

You, you alone
could hold my fancy
ever!

And with you
memories come,
sharp pain, and dole.

Now there's a
choice -- heartache or
tortured liver!

A sea-sick body,
or a you-sick
soul!

Do I
forget
you?

Retchings twist and tie
me, Old meat, good meals, brown
gobbets, up I throw.

Acrid return and
slimy, The sobs and slobber
of a last years woe.

And still
the sick ship
rolls.

'Tis hard, I tell ye,
To choose 'twixt love and nausea,
heart and belly.

All night the ways of Heaven
were desolate, Long roads across a
gleaming empty sky.

Outcast and doomed and driven, you and I,
Alone, serene beyond all love or hate, Terror or triumph,
were content to wait, We, silent and all-knowing.

Suddenly Swept through the heaven
low-crouching from on high, One horseman, downward
to the earth's low gate.

Oh, perfect from the ultimate
height of living, Lightly we turned, through wet woods
blossom-hung, Into the open.

Down the supernal roads, With plumes a-tossing, purple
flags far flung, Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving,
Thundered the black battalions of the Gods.

Through my heart's palace Thoughts unnumbered
throng; And there, most quiet and, as a child, most wise,
High-throned you sit, and gracious.

All day long Great Hopes gold-armoured, jester
Fantasies, And pilgrim Dreams, and little beggar
Sighs, Bow to your benediction, go their way.

And the grave jewelled
courtier Memories Worship and
love and tend you, all the day.

not now, when desire burns, and the
wind calls, and the suns of spring Light-foot dance in the woods,
whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring; Ah!

not now should you come, now when the road
beckons, and good friends call, Where are songs to
be sung, fights to be fought, yea!

and the best of all, Love,
on myriad lips fairer than
yours, kisses you could not give!

Dearest, why should I
mourn, whimper, and whine, I
that have yet to live?

Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on
the lips of you, Now, when dawn in the blood wakes, and the sun laughs
up the eastern blue; I'll forget and be glad!

Still I abode strong
in a golden dream,
Unrecaptured.

and, in the
heart of it, End of
labouring, you!

Therefore I kept
ready the altar, lit
The flame, burning apart.

Face of my dreams
vainly in vision white Gleaming
down to me, lo!

For about midnight Whispers
grew through the wood suddenly, strange cries in the
boughs above Grated, cries like a laugh.

Silent and black then through the
sacred grove Great birds flew, as a dream,
troubling the leaves, passing at length.

Therefore I go; never to
rest, or win Peace, and worship of you more, and the
dumb wood and the shrine therein.

So light we were, so right we were, so
fair faith shone, And the way was laid so certainly, that, when
I'd gone, What dumb thing looked up at you?

Was it something heard, Or a sudden
cry, that meekly and without a word You broke the
faith, and strangely, weakly, slipped apart.

You gave in
-- you, the proud of heart, unbowed
of heart!

Was this, friend,
the end of all that
we could do?

And have you found
the best for you,
the rest for you?

Did you learn
so suddenly
(and I not by!

) Some whispered story, that stole the glory from
the sky, And ended all the splendid dream, and made you go So
dully from the fight we know, the light we know?

the faith remains, and
I must pass Gay down the
way, and on alone.

Under the grass You wait; the breeze
moves in the trees, and stirs, and calls, And covers you
with white petals, with light petals.

Good
sleep to
you!

We have built
a house that is not for
Time's throwing.

We have gained a
peace unshaken by
pain for ever.

War
knows no
power.

Safe shall be my going, Secretly armed against
all death's endeavour; Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

Blow out, you
bugles, over the
rich Dead!

There's none of these so lonely
and poor of old, But, dying, has made us
rarer gifts than gold.

Blow,
bugles,
blow!

They brought us, for
our dearth, Holiness, lacked
so long, and Love, and Pain.

Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And
paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our
ways again; And we have come into our heritage.

These hearts were woven of
human joys and cares, Washed marvellously
with sorrow, swift to mirth.

The years
had given them
kindness.

Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours
of the earth.

These had seen movement, and heard music; known Slumber
and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder;
sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks.

All
this is
ended.

There are waters blown
by changing winds to laughter And
lit by the rich skies, all day.

And after, Frost, with a
gesture, stays the waves that dance And
wandering loveliness.

He leaves a white Unbroken glory,
a gathered radiance, A width, a
shining peace, under the night.

If I should die, think only
this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign
field That is for ever England.

Mamua, when our laughter ends, And
hearts and bodies, brown as white, Are dust about the doors of
friends, Or scent ablowing down the night, Then, oh!

then, the wise agree,
Comes our
immortality.

Mamua, there
waits a land Hard for us
to understand.

Out of time, beyond the sun, All
are one in Paradise, You and Pupure are
one, And Tau, and the ungainly wise.

And my laughter, and
my pain, Shall home to the
Eternal Brain.

And there'll no more be one who dreams
Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff, Eyes of illusion,
mouth that seems, All time-entangled human love.

And you'll no longer swing and sway
Divinely down the scented shade, Where feet to Ambulation
fade, And moons are lost in endless Day.

How shall we wind these
wreaths of ours, Where there are
neither heads nor flowers?

-- but we'll be missing The palms, and sunlight,
and the south; And there's an end, I think, of kissing,
When our mouths are one with Mouth.

'Tau here',
Mamua, Crown the
hair, and come away!

Hear the calling of the
moon, And the whispering scents that stray About
the idle warm lagoon.

Hasten, hand in human hand, Down the dark, the flowered
way, Along the whiteness of the sand, And in the water's soft caress, Wash the
mind of foolishness, Mamua, until the day.

Spend the glittering moonlight there
Pursuing down the soundless deep Limbs that gleam and
shadowy hair, Or floating lazy, half-asleep.

Dive and double and follow after, Snare in flowers,
and kiss, and call, With lips that fade, and human laughter And faces
individual, Well this side of Paradise!

There's little
comfort in
the wise.

Love, in you, went passing by, Penetrative,
remote, and rare, Like a bird in the wide air, And, as the bird,
it left no trace In the heaven of your face.

In your stupidity
I found The sweet hush after
a sweet sound.

All about you was the light That dims the greying end
of night; Desire was the unrisen sun, Joy the day not yet begun, With
tree whispering to tree, Without wind, quietly.

Wisdom slept within your hair, And Long-Suffering
was there, And, in the flowing of your dress,
Undiscerning Tenderness.

And when you thought, it seemed to me,
Infinitely, and like a sea, About the slight world you
had known Your vast unconsciousness was thrown.

O haven
without wave or
tide!

Silence,
in which all songs
have died!

Holy
book, where
hearts are still!

And home
at length under
the hill!

O mother quiet,
breasts of peace, Where love itself
would faint and cease!

Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife Steals
down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, My night shall be remembered
for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days.

Shall I not crown them with immortal praise Whom I
have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness
knelt to see The inenarrable godhead of delight?

Love is a
flame; -- we have beaconed
the world's night.

A city:
-- and we have built it,
these and I.

An emperor:
-- we have taught the
world to die.

Dear names, And
thousand other
throng to me!

And these shall pass, Whatever passes not,
in the great hour, Nor all my passion, all my prayers,
have power To hold them with me through the gate of Death.

They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor
breath, Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust And sacramented
covenant to the dust.

But the best I've known, Stays here, and changes,
breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades
from brains Of living men, and dies.

O dear my loves, O faithless, once again This
one last gift I give:  that after men Shall know, and later lovers,
far-removed, Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved.

" Mataiea, 1914 Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June, Dawdling
away their wat'ry noon) Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret
fishy hope or fear.

Fish say, they have their
Stream and Pond; But is there
anything Beyond?

This life cannot be All,
they swear, For how unpleasant,
if it were!

One may not doubt that, somehow, Good Shall come
of Water and of Mud; And, sure, the reverent eye must
see A Purpose in Liquidity.

We darkly know,
by Faith we cry, The future is
not Wholly Dry.

Mud
unto
mud!

-- Death eddies near
-- Not here the appointed
End, not here!

But somewhere,
beyond Space
and Time.

Is wetter
water,
slimier slime!

And there (they trust) there swimmeth One Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind, Squamous, omnipotent, and kind; And under that
Almighty Fin, The littlest fish may enter in.

And in that Heaven
of all their wish, There shall be
no more land, say fish.

This I know, and
yet I know Doubts that will
not be denied.

For if the soul
be not in place, What has laid
trouble in her face?

And if the spirit
be not there, Why is fragrance
in the hair?

"Oh love is fair, and love
is rare;" my dear one she said, "But love
goes lightly over.

"  I bowed her foolish
head, And kissed her hair
and laughed at her.

Such a child was she;
So new to love, so true to love, and
she spoke so bitterly.

I have peace to weigh your
worth, now all is over, But if to praise
or blame you, cannot say.

For, who decries the loved, decries
the lover; Yet what man lauds the
thing he's thrown away?

Dear fool, pity
the fool who thought
you clever!

Dear wisdom, do
not mock the fool
that missed you!

Most fair, -- the blind
has lost your face
for ever!

Most foul, -- how
could I see you while
I kissed you?

the poor love of fools and blind
I've proved you, For, foul or lovely,
'twas a fool that loved you.

Somewhile before the dawn I rose, and stept Softly
along the dim way to your room, And found you sleeping in the quiet
gloom, And holiness about you as you slept.

I knelt there; till your
waking fingers crept About
my head, and held it.

I had rest Unhoped
this side of Heaven, beneath
your breast.

I knelt a
long time, still; nor
even wept.

It was great wrong you did me;
and for gain Of that poor moment's kindliness,
and ease, And sleepy mother-comfort!

Child, you know How easily
love leaps out to dreams like these,
Who has seen them true.

And love that's wakened
so Takes all too long to
lay asleep again.

Waikiki, October 1913
Today I have been
happy.

The Pacific, October 1913 Warm
perfumes like a breath from vine and tree Drift down the
darkness.

Plangent, hidden from eyes Somewhere
an 'eukaleli' thrills and cries And stabs with pain
the night's brown savagery.

And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me, Gleam like
a woman's hair, stretch out, and rise; And new stars burn into the ancient
skies, Over the murmurous soft Hawaian sea.

Down the blue night the unending columns press In
noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow, Now tread the far South, or lift
rounds of snow Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.

Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless, And
turn with profound gesture vague and slow, As who would pray good for the
world, but know Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead
die not, but remain Near to the rich
heirs of their grief and mirth.

I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these, In
wise majestic melancholy train, And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.

There the sure suns of these pale shadows move; There stand
the immortal ensigns of our war; Our melting flesh fixed Beauty
there, a star, And perishing hearts, imperishable Love.

Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss,
smile; Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;
Love has no habitation but the heart.

on the dark flood we catch
awhile, Cling, and are borne into
the night apart.

The laugh dies
with the lips, 'Love' with
the lover.

South Kensington -- Makaweli, 1913 Now that
we've done our best and worst, and parted, I would fill my mind with
thoughts that will not rend.

I would think of a thousand things, Lovely
and durable, and taste them slowly, One after
one, like tasting a sweet food.

I have need
to busy my heart
with quietude.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken
gate, Where that comes in that shall not go again; Love sells
the proud heart's citadel to Fate.

They have
known shame, who
love unloved.

Some
share
that night.

But they know love grows
colder, Grows false and dull, that
was sweet lies at most.

Astonishment is no
more in hand or shoulder, But darkens, and
dies out from kiss to kiss.

All this is
love; and all love
is but this.

Heart, you are restless as a paper
scrap That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind; Saying,
"She is most wise, patient and kind.

Come to
her, come
to her!

She will
not
care.

She'll smile to see me come,
So that I think all Heaven
in flower to fold me.

She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,
And open wide upon that holy air The gates of peace,
and take my tiredness home, Kinder than God.

But, heart,
she will not
care.

Your hands, my dear, adorable, Your
lips of tenderness -- Oh, I've loved you faithfully
and well, Three years, or a bit less.

Thank
God,
that's done!

and I'll take the road, Quit of my youth
and you, The Roman road to Wendover By Tring and
Lilley Hoo, As a free man may do.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly, The tears
that follow fast; And the dirtiest things we do must lie
Forgotten at the last; Even Love goes past.

What's left behind I shall not find, The splendour
and the pain; The splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave
sting of rain, I may not meet again.

But the years, that take the best away, Give something
in the end; And a better friend than love have they, For none to
mar or mend, That have themselves to friend.

I shall desire and I shall find
The best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow
wind That soothes the darkening shires.

And
laughter, and
inn-fires.

White mist about the black hedgerows, The slumbering
Midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead
leaves in the lane, Certainly, these remain.

And I shall find some girl perhaps,
And a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but
kindlier, And lips as soft, but true.

And I
daresay she
will do.

I came back late and tired last
night Into my little room, To the long chair and the
firelight And comfortable gloom.

I stood a moment
fierce and still, Watching
her neck and hair.

I made a step
to her; and saw That there
was no one there.

It was some trick of
the firelight That made
me see her there.

It was a chance
of shade and light And the
cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy
over the earth, That night,
how could I sleep?

I lay and watched the lonely gloom;
And watched the moonlight creep From wall to basin,
round the room, All night I could not sleep.

Hands and lit faces
eddy to a line; The dazed last minutes
click; the clamour dies.

Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,
Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes Glares the
imperious mystery of the way.

Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed
train Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway, Strain
for the far, pause, draw to strength again.

-- There is an
end appointed, O
my soul!

Crimson and green the
signals burn; the gloom Is hung with steam's
far-blowing livid streamers.

Lost into God, as lights
in light, we fly, Grown one with
will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.

The white
lights
roar.

The
sounds of the
world die.

And lips and
laughter are
forgotten things.

Speed
sharpens;
grows.

Into the night, and
on, The strength and splendour of
our purpose swings.

The
lamps fade; and
the stars.

We
are
alone.

All suddenly the wind comes soft, And
Spring is here again; And the hawthorn quickens
with buds of green, And my heart with buds of pain.

My heart all Winter lay so numb,
The earth so dead and frore, That I never thought the
Spring would come, Or my heart wake any more.

But Winter's broken and earth has woken, And
the small birds cry again; And the hawthorn hedge puts forth
its buds, And my heart puts forth its pain.

They queerly find some healing
so, And strange attainment in the touch; There is a secret
lovers know, -- I have read as much.

And theirs no longer joy nor smart,
Changing or ending, night or day; But mouth to mouth,
and heart on heart, -- So lovers say.

Young Mary, loitering once her
garden way, Felt a warm splendour grow in the April
day, As wine that blushes water through.

And soon, Out of the gold air of the afternoon,
One knelt before her:  hair he had, or fire, Bound back above his ears with
golden wire, Baring the eager marble of his face.

Not man's nor woman's was the immortal
grace Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white, And lighting
the proud eyes with changeless light, Incurious.

Calm as his wings,
and fair, That presence
filled the garden.

She stood there,
Saying, "What would
you, Sir?

" He told
his word, "Blessed art thou
of women!

Her breath came quick
as little flakes
of snow.

Her hands crept
up her
breast.

She did
but know It was
not hers.

She felt a trembling stir
Within her body, a will too strong for
her That held and filled and mastered all.

With eyes Closed, and a thousand
soft short broken sighs, She gave submission;
fearful, meek, and glad.

She
wished to
speak.

Her heart was faint for telling; to relate Her limbs' sweet
treachery, her strange high estate, Over and over, whispering, half revealing,
Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.

'Twixt tears and laughter, panic
hurrying her, She raised her eyes to
that fair messenger.

He knelt unmoved, immortal; with
his eyes Gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;
Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.

His sheaf
of lilies stirred not
in the wind.

Being tired,
she bowed her head; And said,
"So be it!

" The great wings were
spread Showering glory on the
fields, and fire.

The whole air, singing,
bore him up, and higher,
Unswerving, unreluctant.

Soon he shone
A gold speck in the gold
skies; then was gone.

The air
was colder,
and grey.

Behind them, broken-hearted, Came GRIEF, so
noisy a widow, that all said, "Had he but wed Her elder
sister SORROW, in her stead!

" And by her, trying to soothe
her all the time, The fatherless children, COLOUR,
TUNE, and RHYME (The sweet lad RHYME), ran all-uncomprehending.

Then, at the way's
sad ending, Round the raw
grave they stay'd.

Old WISDOM read, In
mumbling tone, the Service
for the Dead.

BEAUTY was there, Pale
in her black; dry-eyed; she
stood alone.

Poor maz'd IMAGINATION; FANCY wild; ARDOUR,
the sunlight on his greying hair; CONTENTMENT, who had known YOUTH
as a child And never seen him since.

And SPRING came too, Dancing
over the tombs, and brought him flowers
-- She did not stay for long.

LOVE had
died long
ago.

and I know How the May fields all golden
show, And when the day is young and sweet, Gild gloriously
the bare feet That run to bathe .

'Du
lieber
Gott!

' Here am I, sweating, sick, and
hot, And there the shadowed waters fresh Lean
up to embrace the naked flesh.

Temperamentvoll German
Jews Drink beer around; -- and THERE the dews Are
soft beneath a morn of gold.

In
Grantchester,
in Grantchester!

-- Some, it may be, can
get in touch With Nature
there, or Earth, or such.

And clever modern men have seen A Faun a-peeping
through the green, And felt the Classics were not dead, To glimpse a Naiad's
reedy head, Or hear the Goat-foot piping low: .

But these are
things I do
not know.

Still in the dawnlit waters cool His ghostly
Lordship swims his pool, And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,
Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx.

Dan Chaucer hears his river
still Chatter beneath a
phantom mill.

Tennyson notes, with
studious eye, How Cambridge
waters hurry by .

Till, at a shiver in the skies, Vanishing with Satanic
cries, The prim ecclesiastic rout Leaves but a startled sleeper-out, Grey heavens,
the first bird's drowsy calls, The falling house that never falls.

I will pack, and take a
train, And get me to England
once again!

Strong men have run for miles and miles,
When one from Cherry Hinton smiles; Strong men have blanched,
and shot their wives, Rather than send them to St.

Ives; Strong men have cried like
babes, bydam, To hear what happened
at Babraham.

In Grantchester their skins are white; They
bathe by day, they bathe by night; The women there do all they
ought; The men observe the Rules of Thought.

They love the Good; they worship Truth; They
laugh uproariously in youth; (And when they get to feeling
old, They up and shoot themselves, I'm told) .

to see the branches
stir Across the moon
at Grantchester!

To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten
Unforgettable, unforgotten River-smell, and hear the
breeze Sobbing in the little trees.

Say, do the elm-clumps greatly
stand Still guardians of that
holy land?

The chestnuts shade, in
reverend dream, The yet
unacademic stream?

Is dawn a secret
shy and cold Anadyomene,
silver-gold?

And sunset still
a golden sea From Haslingfield
to Madingley?

And after, ere the
night is born, Do hares come
out about the corn?

Oh, is the water
sweet and cool, Gentle and brown,
above the pool?

And laughs the immortal
river still Under the mill,
under the mill?

Say, is
there Beauty yet
to find?

Deep meadows yet,
for to forget The lies,
and truths, and pain?

yet Stands
the Church clock at
ten to three?

And is
there honey still
for tea?

Stars that seem so close and bright, Watched
by lovers through the night, Swim in emptiness,
men say, Many a mile and year away.

And yonder star that burns so white,
May have died to dust and night Ten, maybe, or fifteen
year, Before it shines upon my dear.

often among men below, Heart cries
out to heart, I know, And one is dust a many
years, Child, before the other hears.

Heart from heart is all
as far, Fafaia,
as start from star.

Still No
one could see
me.

But you
see
not.

The
way of
love was thus.

He was born one winter
morn With hands delicious, And
it was well with us.

Love came our quiet
way, Lit pride in us, and died
in us, All in a winter's day.

There
is no more
to say.

And Innocence
accounted wise, And Faith the
fool, the pitiable.

Love so rare, one would swear All of
earth for ever well-- Careless lips and flying hair,
And little things I may not tell.

It does but
double the heart-ache When I
wake, when I wake.

The
Thing
must End.

I
am
no boy!

I
being
twenty-one.

Uncle, you make A great mistake,
a very great mistake, In chiding
me for letting slip a "Damn!

" What's more, you called me "Mother's
one ewe lamb," Bade me "refrain from swearing--for
her sake-- Till I'm grown up" .

I think you
take Too much upon you,
Uncle William!

You say I
am your brother's
only son.

I
know
it.

And,
"What
of it?

Something
must be
done.

So shall I curb, so baffle, so
suppress This too avuncular officiousness,
Intolerable consanguinity.

Ears satiate With the clamorous, timorous
whisperings of to-day, Thrilled to perceive once more the spacious
voice And serene utterance of old.

Fulfilled our hearts were with that music
then, And all the evenings sighed it to the dawn, And
all the lovers heard it from all the trees.

All of
the accents upon
all the norms!

the stress on
the
penultimate!

We never
knew blank verse could have
such feet.

Where
is it
now?

Oh, more than ever, now I sometimes think no
poetry is read Save where some sepultured Caesura bled,
Royally incarnadining all the line.

Is the imperial iamb
laid to rest, And the young trochee,
having done enough?

The slow
lines
swell.

The
new
styles sighs.

The Celt Moans
round with many
voices.

They'd snare the moon, and catch the immortal
sun With madder brown and pale vermilion, Entrap an
English evening's magic hush .

still temporal, and still atmospheric, Teleologically
unperturbed, We share a peace by no divine divined, An earthly garden hidden from
any cleric, Untrodden of God, by no Eternal curbed.

Hand trembling towards
hand; the amazing lights
Of heart and eye.

They
stood on supreme
heights.

Ah, the
delirious
weeks of honeymoon!

Soon they returned, and after strange
adventures, Settled at Balham by the
end of June, Their money was in Can.

Debentures,
And in
Antofagastas.

Still he went Cityward
daily; still she did abide
At home.

And both were really
quite content With work and social
pleasures.

They left three children
(beside George, who drank); The eldest Jane,
who married Mr.

Bell, William, the head-clerk in
the County Bank, And Henry,
a stock-broker, doing well.

I have risen to the uttermost Heaven of Joy,
I have sunk to the sheer Hell of Pain-- But--it's not going to happen again,
my boy, It's not going to happen again.

All in the town were still
asleep, When the sun came up with
a shout and a leap.

In the lonely
streets unseen by man, A
little dog danced.

And
the day
began.

All his life he'd been good, as far
as he could, And the poor little beast
had done all that he should.

But this morning he swore,
by Odin and Thor And the Canine
Valhalla--he'd stand it no more!

So his prayer he got granted--to
do just what he wanted, Prevented
by none, for the space of one day.

" He fought with the he-dogs, and
winked at the she-dogs, A thing that had never
been heard of before.

"For the stigma
of gluttony, I
care not a button!

" he Cried, and
ate all he could
swallow--and more.

He took sinewy lumps
from the shins of old frumps, And mangled
the errand-boys--when he could get 'em.

He shammed furious rabies, and
bit all the babies , And followed the cats
up the trees, and then ate' em!

When the blood-red sun had gone burning down, And the
lights were lit in the little town, Outside, in the gloom of the twilight
grey, The little dog died when he'd had his day.

"Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,
Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows, Sweeps out to darkness, triumphing
in his goal, Out of the fire, out of the little room.

I only know That, as he turned to go And
waved his hand, In his young eyes a sudden glory shone, And I was
dazzled by a sunset glow -- And he was gone.

In alien earth, across
a troubled sea, His body lies
that was so fair and young.

His mouth is stopped, with
half his songs unsung; His arm is still,
that struck to make men free.

But let no cloud of
lamentation be Where, on a
warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.

We keep the echoes of
his golden tongue, We keep the vision
of his chivalry.

So Israel's joy, the
loveliest of kings, Smote now his harp,
and now the hostile horde.

To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings With psalms
a soldier made to praise his Lord; And David rests beneath Eternal
wings, Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.

Then, recollecting,
laughingly you turn, And look into
my eyes and take my hand.

Out of the primal dark He
leapt, like lyric lark, Singing his aubade
strain; Then fell to earth again.

We garner all he gave, And
on his hero grave, For love and honour
strew, Rosemary, myrtle, rue.

Son of the Morning, we Had kept
you thankfully; But yours the asphodel:
Hail, singer, and farewell!

What lineage
so noble as from Sires, Laureled
by Freedom?

For, who, but
the brave Have glory
to transmit?

The Hero's
grave Blooms
ever.

Those crowns, not cold from death sweat on the
brow, At sight of apparitions with fixed stare, But warm with summer,
conjuring beauties rare-- Wilt not.

They are dewed daily
by your vow, Daughters of sires who,
to no thrall, would bow!

Which, at the alter with raised hands, ye
swear, Cheering the blessed spirits, gathered there, That,
like their Mothers, are their daughters now.

True women--and therefore, craft foilers clever--
With sons for your hearts utterance, ye sue Not, but like Barry
to the British crew, Ye cry out: "What!

these colors, since they drew
Their first star-breath, are God's, and
God's forever.

" Ye know the
Leopard changes not
his spots.

The Prince of Peace, who
spake eternal truth, Confirmed
this fact of Nature.

Oh, yea, this beast makes his own desert, still; And Ireland,
India and Egypt show His spots so spread, he is one ghastly
glow; Aye, as your sires saw him from Bunker Hill.

Oh, vain, gold
rubs the skin and
press shouts, "Lo!

It has not
now one spot of threatening
ill.

" O Daughters of the brave,
well ye abjure The fiend
and all his works.

O Mothers, as you lift your babes and gaze Into
their eyes, your love runs through their vains In crimson flushes--oh, your love
that pains At any of God's creatures hurt!

that stays; The heavens may pass
away, but that remains, Being of
Christ, who walks earth Mother-ways.

Oh, like your sires, you,
too, know Freedom's worth To
Human Spirit.

For its liberation, A
God unrealmed himself by tribulation, And
was an out-cast on a scornful earth.

Christ is no myth and, since with Human birth He forms new
Heavens for blissful habitation-- There unto is the Freedom of the
Nation; All other trend is down to dark and dearth.

When from the darkness rainbowed birth
comes pouring, Your virtue heeds the voice,
Eternity-- Re-echos: "Let them come.

" 'Tis Nature's plea For broadening progress;
Nay, 'tis God imploring The Human to take strength for
Liberty, Truth, Honor, to catch up to the stars, a-soaring.

O Daughters
of brave sires, what is
true glory?

No marsh-ward falling
star, however
bright.

'Tis inspirational; its upward
flight Lifts generations--such your Father's story, And also
yours, for is not that, too, gory?

You pour out your hearts blood in sons to
fight For honor, and cease not till every right
Has been set down in Triumph's inventory.

Oh, into daughters,
too, old noble
Mothers!

If Christ's foreshadowing in Juda's haze
Was of his grief, 'tis of His triumph, here, For, is not His
celestrial glory clear In Freedom for all men?

First, gaseous rays In Maryland, then rounded firm
full blaze In the Republic, it draws every sphere Of Human welfare, whether
far or near, From depths occult to nights with dawns and days.

Oh, ever Mothers--shaping
robust youth No less than infant,
and as perfectly!

There's life blood to their veins from when
on knee To when thy battle, from your broadening
ruth For Human kind and fervent love of truth.

If, like their fathers, they have come to
be The wonder of the world, for liberty, Your virtue,
'tis, that in their valor greweth.

Oh, as the Roman Mother, when she showed
For jewels, her two sons, saw each of them In Time's Tiara,
glittering there a gem; So, see your offspring shine.

The light, bestowed Your Fathers,
in your sons is diamond flame, Encircling
Freedom's ocean-walled abode.

Soar thou aloft, though
thou ascend alone, O
Human Spirit!

Thou
canst not
be lost.

What though yon stars, the azure's
nightly frost Melt dark, or mount round
thee an arctic zone!

Thou hast sun-warmth
and star-source of
thine own.

If thou mount not,
how bitter is
the cost!

What anguish, when whirled down, or
tempest tossed, To know how high toward
God thou mightst have flown!

Vault
Godward,
Poet.

What though few may
climb The mountain and the star
on trail of thee?

Thy wing-flash beams toward Man, and, if it be
True inspiration--whether thought sublime, Or fervor for the Truth, or
Liberty-- Thy light will reach the earth in goodly time.

On them
He breathes with
dream And, Lo!

an Angel with a sword
agleam 'Twix the Old World and New
for Justice's sake.

What sea so
broad, as that from
Human weeping?

Or Sun so flaming,
as the Angel's sword Of Human and Devine
Wills in accord?

There, with sword-flash of myriad waves,
joy-leaping, Shall loom forever, Freedom's watch and ward, With the
New World in his Seraphic keeping.

This is thy
glory, Man, that
thou art free.

'Tis in thy freedom,
thy resemblance lies To
thy Creator.

Nature, which, tide-wise,
Is flood and ebb, bounds
not sky flight for thee.

as the sun arises from the sea, Startling
all beauty God-ward, thou dost rise With mind to God in heaven, from finite
ties, And there, in freedom, thou art great as He.

Meeting thy God with mind, 'tis thine to choose, Wheather to
follow him with love and soar, Or dream Him myth and, rather than adore,
Plunge headlong into Nature's whirl and ooze.

Thine
is full
freedom.

could God do more
To liken thee to Him,
and love, infuse?

God loves the stars; else
why star-shape the dew For the
unbreathing, shy, heart-hiding rose?

And when earth darkens,
and the North wind blows, Why into stars,
flake every cloud's black brew?

What fitter forms for longings high and true, Man's
hopes, ideals, than bright orbs like those Asbine from Nature's dawn to Nature's
close, In clusters, prisming every dazzling hue?

I hear thy far
off cry where thou art lone, A
John the Baptist: "Lo!

one
greater
nears.

" What is this Greater--this which
is to meet The planets and ascend
high, high and higher?

The right of human spirit to aspire And mount,
unhampered--and by act, complete Creations harmony, as by
desire, Proclaimed by brain with throb, by heart with beat.

In thy descent through azures, all
aglow With circling spheres, the beauty of each
blaze, And grandeur, then, of all, entrance thy gaze.

Thou thinkest,
why not thus all
life below?

Perceiving, then that all the breezes blow Upward
and onward, in the skyey maze, Thou wouldst go back and start with them, to
raise A new creation from chaotic throe.

fain we follow thee in
flight From chaos to God's glory
round and round, Aloft!

how like an elk pursued by hound, To brinks
thou springest toward the distant height And, on bent knees, then
speedest without sound, Like Faith through Death, till, lo!

thou
dost
alight.

"Ye Wreaches, who would lay proud England's
head Upon the block, and raise her features, then, Bloodless
and ghastly, for the scorn of men!

Go where terrors
spread Their sea and forest
mouths to crush you dead.

Oh, how the clouds shall crimson from each glen,
A roar with blaze, and flame search out each fen, If back
to us, yea e'er are vomited.

" To this Parental blessing and God-speed, The Pilgrim
Fathers gladly made reply: "These waves are Conscience's wings along
the sky; They carry us to God, whose call we heed.

The further from thy
coast of hate and lie,
The nearer God.

--that is
our
creed.

" O Sun
and
Stars!

bear ye
Earth's thanks to God;
For Oh!

what waters, slaking every thirst
Of heart, mind, spirit, in long cascades burst From
Plymouth Rock, when struck by Freedom's rod!

No wanderer in the
burning sand, unshod, Plods man with lolling
tongue, dog-like, as erst; For lo!

this fountain, deepening
from the first, Floods Earth's old wells
and greens Life's sand to sod.

Oh, more those waters than the
Font of Youth, For which, through field and
swamp, the Spaniard ran!

For they are clear with God's
eternal truth Of fatherhood, hence
brotherhood of man, And are no dream.

They quench all human
drouth And cleanse man's desert dust of
sect and clan.

Of Expeditions in the Arctic Past,
All honor to the one that reached the pole And formed a settlement
where every soul Enjoyed full freedom.

There above the
blast, How musical the
bell, by Justice cast!

It ceased to
toll After a while,
but why?

Those, welcomed, stole
And dragged it where the
ice formed thick and fast.

Of Arctic Expeditions there is none
So profitable to the human race As that toward
Freedom's pole, and hence men face All storms to reach it.

If they fail, the sun Has but one
joy--to thaw out wrecks, and trace Man's progress
where alone it can be done.

Say, what
is Ma-jest-y without
externals?

Is Burke's
analysis
not right--"A Jest"?

Ah, but a jest, at which
the poor, oft pressed To their last heart-drop,
laugh not, like court journals.

blares the tyrant's
horn and, in a thrice,
The Tories gather.

Eagerly they band,
For is the King not greater
than the land?

And rows with
royalty, a
rabble's vice?

Besides, what creeping tribes
at his command, And Spies and Hessians
at a ferret's price!

shouts
Freedom to
her sons.

How, like Job's war-horse,
they gulp down the
ground To battle!

What care they
how foes
surround?

Oh, joy
to Celts, nigh half the true
and bold!

There, with the roar of all their wrongs uprolled From ancient
depths, they dash with billow-bound Up rock and summit, and through cave and mound,
Spurning both Tyrants' steel and Treason's gold.

No tide are
they to ebb in
heart and spirit.

The wounded Sidney, who despite his
thirst, Gave water to his comrade, shines, a lamp In
the Cimerian dark of Britain's camp.

Even the Raleigh, who so finely
versed, Preferred to such a light, the flame accursed Of
sword and torch, to please a royal vamp.

Is British triumph
in its world-wide tramp The Hell, still "lower
than lowest"--Milton's worst?

is British soldiery
the swine, In whose gross forms the fiends,
exercised, flew?

watch them through the ages,
they pursue The noble and devour
all things Divine.

they illustrate horrors,
which prove true The Hell, which Milton's
glimpse could not outline.

Freedom glares and pallid as a ghost,
Except for gashes on her brow and breast, And faint
from hunger, sits awhile to rest.

With France and Erin heartening
Washington, Prone Freedom rose, with head
above the cloud.

Beholding
her transfigured, Thrall
is cowed.

His minions
are
bewildered.

Some follow him
against the rising sun;
Others plod north.

The Torries' vaster crowd Hide
in dark places, and like Satan, proud, They
hate the glory, that the true have won.

Thou
beheldest
them.

Who loosed our
land from Britain's
numbing hold?

"They who had naught to loose," the Tories
say; That is--not menials in the King's sure pay, Nor mongrels,
chained to guard their master's gold.

They
were True
Men.

Their spirit, young and bold, With dreams played follow-master,
climbing day From deepest night, to catch the Sun and stay His
glory for the World, then whiteing cold.

Though darkness be far vaster
than the lamp, It is the beams that lead
to progress, count.

"To manhood, with the virtues to
surmount Such darknesses as Valley Forge's camp, And seas,
deep hell's sky-reaching, broadening fount, Honor!

" The ages
shout on Triumph's
tramp.

When hurled from heaven,
'tis thought, the fiends of pride Caught
Earth to brake their fall.

The regions gave And
sank with all the hosts
beneath the wave!

'Tis in those sunken regions which divide The new
world of the resolute and brave, From the old world of king and abject
slave, Where Torries, counterfeiting Satan, hide.

Old
Guard of
Boston!

Halt;
Right Face;
Attention!

Order One: quell the weeds
in rankest riot Where lies Elisha
Brown, in conscience, quiet.

This Brown was
John's
precursor.

Ye, on pension
For ancient glory,
now do duty.

Mention Elisha's
name for countersign--and
why, it?

Because with him, wrong, seen,
was to defy it, And act, else, was
beyond his comprehension.

What is it that today we celebrate
With school recital, banquet and parade Of our
achievements, pageanting each trade?

If not un-Englishing America in
mind And heart forever, vain the shrieks Of Freedom,
eagling back to dawn's first streaks.

Oh, yea, the sun stands, and the night afar
Holds Thrall, whose craft would swamp our noblest peaks And leave
but bubbling mud show where they are!

Glory flings his arms
round thee And proudly holds thee
in his high caress.

What charms him, Mother,
is thy nobleness Of
spirit.

" In
thee I
glory.

Can the world else boast A harbor, like thy
heart, for every sail In flight from sea-toss, white with horror's
gale, Or icebergs from despondence Polar coast?

Oh, fleets whose throngs, glad Freedom
well may hail; For, landing, they became
her staunchest host.

With what wild glee, the British set on fire Yon
Capital, beholding in its flames, America, robed in her deeds
and fames, In death throes at the stake of England's ire?

Though that was long ago and, then no pyre, The
stake still stands; 'tis Anglo-Saxon claims, And Arnolds, bearing infamy's last names,
Tilt schools to raise the stake flames high and higher.

Oh, sight to strike the coming ages dead, My country,
were a cloud, thy mocking crown, And schools, ignited by Truth's lamps hurled
down, To feed that cloud, like craters, inly red!

mock with cloud, Thy land and sea renown
And Washington, God's Holy Spirit--known By the
unerring World Light, that it shed?

Behold Ye Here the Happy Hunting Grounds, Where the Great
Spirit, called Democracy, Sets every heart and soul forever
free, An Equity, not royal grant, sets bounds.

No Phaeton attempting Phoebus rounds And burning
up earth's grass and forestry, Is lust for power; 'tis love for
liberty, With bloom and birds for wheel-sparks, here resounds.

It is the
land of
Spirit.

"Ye who enter, Abandon
first all fratricidal hate," Proclaims the edict,
blazoned o'er each gate.

There see all tribes chase truth to joy--the center
Convexing broad and broader, as more great Their numbers
from where prejudice is mentor.

Hark,
'tis
the sea!

How
leonine
its roar!

But, oh, how more the lion on a height,
As there he glares and listens for the night, Having
devoured day's clouds from shore to shore!

Now grows his
mane of billows, high
and hoar.

Potencies escaping sight,
Till, like the cold, they icily alight Upon a
land where all was spring before.

The sun darts
under earth and east again,
What sees he?

What is the blight to spring
that kills the seed And raises spectres,
so that stars cry "See!

" Aghast at forests,
white or
shadowy?

The scorn of human
rights, that can but lead The world
from doom to doom!

and
for
what mead?

A bronze for rain and
rust, or effigy For nibbling
minutes--ah, not hours!

--these flee To life's
progression--truth and
kindly deed.

Closely scanned, They are gross worms, each with the thought
to grow "The Conqueror," as staged by Edgar Poe For
darking planets and a world, Last Manned.

How weird
a
whisper!

'tis
from
Wallabout.

'Tis glory hoarse
with calling: "Raise those hulks Where
writhe my faithful.

Those mangled thousands
are not dead; they live, Refashioned
men by freedom.

Is the tory Behind the
sun, to mock me, who am Glory, Being
the lifted life those martyrs give?

He creeps beneath the sun and,
ghastly gory, Crys out: "Thou yet
shall be the fugitive".

Oh, weirder grows the whisper into word, As sharp as
lightening, and as broad of reach, As seas, flung down by God to every
beach Where thirsts a sparrow, or a bleating herd!

The shouts of millions
shake Oblivion's mire
And raise Thrall's Hulks.

Justice's stooping sun, Seeing in agony's each, a
Washington, Breaths life in them, and, over Brooklyn's spire And New York's Babel Tower, they,
one by one, Hold Liberty's broading Torch of quenchless fire.

Hate thou not any
man, for at the worst, He
still is brother.

Will a glance not find Whole peoples
alchemied from heart and mind To steal projectiles by
a craft, accursed By Human Nature?

Aye, for, as they burst At dusk, or midnight,
slamming Heaven behind And crashing Hell wide open, 'tis
mankind Is shattered and quick-gulping grave slake thirst.

Hate thou no man, but scorn all crafts, that
smelt The heart and mind for huge projectiles, shattered When
bursting grandly that some pride be flattered.

Nature beholds not Saxon, Slav, nor
Celt; She only sees the Human fragments scattered, And,
covering them, her eyes to rivers melt.

Have I ever
been
untrue?

When, to thy moan of
hunger anywhere,
Have I been deaf?

Was I not
quick to share My little,
nay, give all!

I knew Thy beauty, and
my love such passion grew At thy
distresses,--What would I not dare!

So, though the bellow, like
a grizzly bear, Reared up before
me, on to thee I flew.

Is thy beauty
without heart, Or
sense of justice?

Unto whom art thou
Indebted for thine arm, encircling
now The world, sun-like, more than to me?

My part I
glory in, for I have
kept my vow.

I hold
thee now to thine, if
true thou art.

When a haggard fugitive, Thy
dwelling was a swamp, who first to trace Thy crimson
footprints to thy hiding place?

With signs thou hadst not
many days to live,
I found thee.

Had the sun more
heart to give To warm
thee, than I gave?

Ah, then and there Thy
heart said to my heart; "Ill would
I fare Without thee.

I give
love for
love, believe".

Thy silence,
when in glory,
troubles me.

warm blood
dashed back cold, chills
to the bone!

What
do I
ask for?

Only Erin's own, That which God gave her, and,
if true it be, Thou art the minister of justice grown,
Thy gratitude should thunder God's decree.

Why bemoan one island in the sea, When I
can range like mountains, or, the sun, Above all clouds, and, rosy from
my run To God, like morn, chant praise, since flesh of thee?

Oh, yea, my pride and transport, verily, Is, thou
and I eternally are one; And this god-passion which no power can
stun, I owe to her, who gave her soul to me.

'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birth The stars all lead,
rejoicing, which souls thee With God's compassion for humanity,-- That I invoke;
and, now, when all the earth Bears palms and chants hosannas--what!

shall she, The most devout,
be shut from Freedom's
mirth?

All English
glory is in "Kipling's
Boots.

read that poem true,
And answer,--are those maddening
men not you?

"Boots, boots, boots, and no
discharge from war,"-- That is the
Empire's anthem.

Brass it out,
Ye
Orchestras!

But oh, leave not in doubt Its import, Kipling,--that
'tis maelstrom roar-- 'Tis England's streams of home-life, world about And
down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on shore!

Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belong
The minds of England, and treed fields of song-- Nay,
all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?

O English People, whom the crafty class Has
huddled into graves from sight and sound Of what God hands you,
and, with pence, or pound, Lids down your wild dead stare,--wake!

See in the Celts spring-burst
from underground, The Human
Resurrection come to pass.

Oh, what are England's lines
of lords and kings, Shakespeare, to thine, a-throb
with thought and feeling?

The
righteousness
of England!

"Tis to kneel Full weight on weaker nations,
and entone Hosannas louder than the victims groan;
Then, stooping, drink their blood with gulps of zeal.

" What right have wounds,
though wide, to throb,
or feel?

'Tis blasphemy
to England's crimson
throne.

Knee-deep in Erin's
blood, she mocks Christ's moan: Forgive
them, Lord!

they
know not their true
weal.

"Whose
is the
fault?

Tis not my arrogance,
But candor, Lord, that puts the
blame on Thee.

What right hadst Thou to make
these people free And let all nature
prompt them to advance?

-- Oh, no such blunder, Lord,
hadst Thou called me, Instead of Wisdom,
to approve Thy plans!

" The Bard's curse: "Ruin
seize thee Ruthless King," Took bat-like
form for hollow echo-flight.

Oh, to my sight,
How grows its grimness, while
eternaling!

Deep are the minds of Wales, but far more deep
The horror, gulfed out by McCreedy, firing On
men defenseless and, through want, expiring.

Oh, from that gulf the Bard's curse makes a sweep
Up to the Sun and, from its long desiring, Grown eagle,
shrieks to heaven from steep to step!

"A dirty work," said Dyer,
rebuked for spilling Hundreds of lives to
irrigate new lands.

A dirty work, but not
for British hands, Dabbling in
blood to earn each day their shilling.

Mohawk Valley and Wyoming, chilling With
thought of Tarleton's King-serving bands, And Canada red-clayed, though high snow stands,
Cry: Work for which the British are too willing!

Invaded lands need terror
irrigation To make
them fruitful.

The ocean, holding pure the azure's
blue, Laughs at the tempests, with one empire's dust
After an other, to round out Earth's crust.

Look in the sea and deep,
what scattered rock, The islands which
at dusk, the tempest piled!

Ere rose
a star, they sank with
crews, beguiled.

O Tempests that with world formations,
mock The good Creator, how, as ye grow wild, Earth quakes
and no live thing survives the shock.

Our country is
not rock and wood and stream, But
soul transfusing them.

What
is the
soul?

The soul, then,--our true country,--is the brave
Who fought and bled for Freedom, or will fight To their
last pulse, last breath, for Human Right.

oh, how like bubbles in the wave,
Are the Sierras in cerulean flight, To thy
true grandeur, letting nought enslave!

O thou art Character--art
only those Who formed the good and
great by thought, or deed.

No mere foot-shadow, on time's wall, art thou,
Without eye-sparkle, swing of arm, warm flow From heart
to vain, and cheeks with health of glow.

Oh, 'tis eternal heights reflect thy
brow And shoulders, that avert man's overthrow, Threatened
all times, and never more than now.

Oh, what if
lone and long thy lofty
flight, My country?

Is thy vision not as
clear As that of Vesper, dauntless pioneer
On Twilight's altitude?

How thy lone loftness, aloof
from wrong, Refracting man-ward, God's enrapturing smile
Of fruitful fields, leads legions!

On they file And phalanx, and
the vision makes thee strong: What, though God's searchlight
flares the sky the while?

It nears not
thee, ear-close to heaven's
high song.

From out a desert where the
trails run red, Judah and Erin speed
their camel pace, Sighting green palms.

" Who, in descent from Heaven's ecstatic throng, Was
twin to light, and ranged from source to sea, And shore to peak, and God, drew
up to thee The generations happy, pure and strong?

Freedom, as Erin's was, ere
ruthless wrong Caught, scourged and hanged it on the
out-law's tree; And is; for lo!

it proves Divinity,
Transfiguring from anguish,
ages long.

True, they have strangled Freedom on
the cross Of every Right's suppression--nay, have barred
His body's tomb, and placed a host on guard!

Still, He is
risen; His faithful
mourn no loss.

He shines
forth in their
midst.

No bolts retard
His entrance, where grand aims
for life engross.

The fight in
Ireland is
'twixt Man and Brute.

A lion with the sea-surge for his mane,
Is there hurled back by Man with proud disdain, Although
heart-drained with gash from head to foot.

Oh, in that Eden of Forbidden Fruit, How
Satan, searching for a snake in vain, Fumed forth a monster from his
heart and brain-- The Lion--as the serpent's substitute!

Oh, all ye
peoples of the World
draw nigh!

How help love thee, whose hand,
raised to the sun, Glows rosy, and
not red with murder's stain?

The
angels
kiss it.

Force can
forge no chain To
drag thee false-ward.

Like a holy Nun, Stigmated,
how thy faith grows with thy pain-- Aye, till thy
Cross, like Constantine's has won.

In rapt, roused Erin, who does not
behold A Venus, rising from the sea of
tears, Up to her native, Earth-illuming spheres?

where the green
and orange morn unfurls, See
Erin rise.

How shine her
golden
tresses!

They form her crown, for trailing rocks down whirls, And reaching
all the under-sea recesses, They draw about her brow, the rarest pearls--
Love for what frees and hate for what oppresses!

Look,
Human
Nature!

Where else canst thou
boast To the eternal
stars, so grand a sight?

How men there ennoble
human kind By making Liberty
the light to Peace!

who but sees In the unconquerable
Celtic mind That, even in Time, there are Eternities--
Love, true to Right, and Will no wrong can bind!

Why play
with
words?

There never
can be peace Till Ireland
is set free.

Her spirit is no
norbury Banshee-- To wail
and, then, to vanish.

She will stand With lifted flambeau, lighted by
the hand That lights the stars, till she again is free, Inspiring normal
man in every land With love of Freedom, by her scorn of thee.

Stop foul God-slaughter where to not rebel,
In order to develop and excel, Were God
in man, succumbed to age-longed blights.

" Where Heavenward rose
the God in man of old, Staunch
stand these Wardens.

Sleepless, they behold
Each turn of England's
Evil Eye.

They call, When she would form the fulminate
of gold, A thumb and finger-pinch of which, let fall, Might blast
Columbia's peaks to slit of thrall.

Of all the fulminates, gold is the worst, Which
England, aeroplaning, now, lets drop By day and night, in bank, press, church and
shop, Timed to the minute that it is to burst.

List to Demosthenes,
if not to Hearst, Sublime
Republic!

Lest thy great heart stop, Shocked by
the blast of Freedom's every prop, And
bats and owls in dwellings, Human's erst.

She drops her gold,
in creeping Beneath
free Athens' sky-ascending stair.

Watch
her with glance of
sword.

Oh, watch, for where
She sows her gold, she comes
with scythes for reaping!

Is Athens in ascent
with sun-light flare, To come down ashes,
not worth history's keeping?

-- Sole trail, as
time, who peers through grief,
discerns.

O Caledonia, by thy Burn's brave
song, And deeds of Wallace and Paul Jones for Right, Thy mother knows
thee in the dark of night, And claps thee heart-close.

She cries
out: "Be strong, Soul
of my soul!

though not a Boswell
quite, Still, be whole
man!

remember
Glencoe's
wrong.

There's England's
soul of merciless
intriguing!

'tis the
bagpipes welcoming
the guest.

See the
assembly,
dance and feast.

Oh, watch The open heart
and flow of good old Scotch; The English come,
as friends, must have the best.

There, hospitality
is at top notch,-- And so is
treachery in Britain's breast.

The
cock
crows.

--Is
he
dreaming?

'Tis
dark
still.

He crows again and now, from farm
to farm, His fellows echo far his dazed alarm
And flap of wings on fences.

with such lamp in hand
As Glencoe's horror,
thou hast England true.

Why let Froude fiction
haze thy vivid
view?

Put not thy light out for sound sleep,
but stand And answer, when the mother, whom thou
drew Thy soul from, cries "Glencoe"!

when
Black
and Taned.

O Canada,
Long red with cottage
flame From Britain's torch!

thy blasts milk not the cloud To nourish
hope; instead, they spread the shroud On Human Spirit
answering Freedom's claim.

Whence comes the cold which icicles with shame, Thy heart's
Niagara, that should thunder loud Unto thy far off soul in sorrow,
bowed O'er Papineau, whom Thraldom could not tame?

Whence comes this
cold to Freedom's
claim?

we know Only too well,--from creatures of the
King, Who had dragged Hell of every poisonous thing
And, through our country, had spread waste and woe.

Beaten at last, they flocked like carion crow, On
the dead body of their will to sting, Which drifting Northward, and
enlargening, Loomed Dante's Nimrod, 'mid the Arctic snow.

with Sun-warmth for Truth and
Human Right, Is
Boreus met.

Who hurles
him down
the deep?

Look close;--'tis Gladden who, on Freedom's steep, Is as
inspiring, as, on Andes' height, The great Christ Statue, bidding Rancor
sleep And Life's diverging rays in love, beam Light.

why
all this sleigh-bell
rhyming?

God said to Wrong:
"No further shalt
thou go.

" This, Monroe
heard and held, then, in
his heart.

It was this he repeated,
when on chart He made his markings, checking
Freedom's foe.

God never grants to Wrong the right to grow; Because
He sets its bounds, does not impart His blessing on its growth, more than its
start; His blessing goes to Right, to overthrow.

Oh, let thine
eyes for migratory
flight Speed southward!

Passing Prejudice's Lake, Green-crusted with stagnation
which some take For verdure, they will see from Andes' height, How Freedom's battle forms the
red day-break, And tides are swells from thrall, hurled deep from sight.

From South
to North, no sky
is black but thine.

We seek no
annexation, but of
Mind, Heart, Spirit.

Rise, and be one
On the new world's Star-top
of Liberty.

"The Angels come in
dreams," says Holy Writ; And Science says,
"No sleep so deep, but dreams.

whose pure soul and heart embrace Translates
me into heaven, I draw for breath The joy of
angels who have not known death.

Child-like, I look up in thy loving
face, Else gaze around and point, and curious place
My hand on Mottoes, hung on high.

One saith: "Beware,
for he not with
me scatterith.

" Its meaning
comes to me with
growth, like grace.

Think the tyrant, whose great soul is trade, Whose history,
a crater, belching black And lurid, keeps glad Easter morning back From
half the world--loves thee save to invade, As blackward planned?

loves thee, along whose track
March Human rights up to
the stars parade?

There where the Tyrant long
has loomed, wreck-crowned, Are young and old
hurled to the coast and blast.

Frail are their ships; still,
Sun, why glare aghast, Watching the
billows monstering around?

The soul
of man was not born to
be drowned.

It mounts and mounts, till, at God's throne, at last,
And freedom welcomes it with arms, sky-vast, As down
it comes to meet Thrall and confound.

O, deathless spirit, born of hosts
sea-hurled, Who hast out soared night's stars with
agony's cry For justice!

Thou hast come down from the sky, Heralding doom
to Thrall, whose flag unfurled By steel, or craft, shows, as 'tis hoisted high,
The blood of man and ruin of the world.

What
is
the Truth?

The thought, the act, or cry,
Recasting the Supreme Intelligence;
All else is false.

where are stars so dense,
That each has not the freedom
of the sky?

And, still,
what peace, what glory,
reigns on high!

with the
wisdom of the
heavens, dispense?

The Peace, for which our
longings grow intense, Comes through the stars
to earth, and but thereby.

What splits
dark mid-night and gives earth
a thrill?

All stars
merged into one--our Country's
aim.

It is a lightening, formed by God, to flame Across
the ages and flash bolts to kill The stranglers, who the heart or spirit,
main, Or choke black in the face, a People's Will.

Who is to rise and hurl God's
flame world-wide, As Lincoln hurled it, setting free a race From
Sphinx-shaped wrong--a beast with human face?

That shattered, how our
land rose glorified And, from the
stars last laggard, soared, their guide!

Oh, who can take Promethean
Lincoln's place, To bring light where-so-ever he can trace A
Human, with his rights to soul denied?

He must be one, not only to illume All ages,
and not leave one region dim, But at no height, allow his senses swim,
Or let mirages lure him with false bloom.

Here one comes with all
the virtues prim To hurl God's
fire and end all human gloom.

'Tis Wilson
takes God's flame from Lincoln's
hand.

Why not hurl them
and convince The world that,
hence-forth, not one thrall shall stand?

Wilson's arm lacks strength to
hurl the flame, God gave to Lincoln
for the Human race?

Quenched by
dark
space?

No; it describes an orbit there, the same
As comets, and regains its heavenly place For
one to hurl it true, and doom Earth's Shame.

In Wilson we beheld
and proudly hailed The World's
Deliverer.

In him, we saw A
luminous being rise from earth
and draw All lands above the clouds.

We were regaled With justice
cascades flow, long ice impaled
Upon high mountains.

Was not Nature's
thaw From his heart heat for
truth, Eternal Law?

His was
the heat of all
the stars, he scaled.

Though his ascension was like Christ's, sublime
With lift of continents and every isle, He,
less than Christ, succumbed to Demon Guile.

Oh, God, that he should drop his mountain
climb Below sea-level, and let earth the while, Fall back
and settle in Primeval Slime!

Oh, such his truth to God,--so oft avowed,--
A spirit thund'red from a luminous cloud:
"This man crowns Lincoln's work.

" Oh, had
he read his bible
where St.

Paul, Grown man, put off
child things--or, had not smiled, When told, strong Ego
oft, is man grown child!

Who sees not an Epoch's Angel
Fall From hope for earth, in Wilson's truth, beguiled By
second childhood's toys to play with thrall?

Our Country
still is in the
womb, dark Time.

It shows life by its brisk and
robust turns, Which thrill the Mother, Liberty,
who yearns To see her man-child born.

Oh, how sublime With genius, not of one, but every
climb Where art forms beauty, or the spirit spurns The foul and spurious,--her
desire, that burns Prenatally in him, to form him prime!

Oh People, all--Italian, Spanish, French,
Dutch, English, Irish, German, Jew, and Greek-- What see
you, as you climb the Future's Peak?

What looms there, shall wrench From life, all
monsters out from Hell, to seek Dead consciences
and plague earth with their stench.

Ascend, O
Land of every
Creed and Race!

Not thy full image, in New England's
brook, Nor in the South's lagoon; though there, a look Delights
us with thy chubby, infant face.

'Tis seas of joy, that shorelessly replace The Ocean
which, in time of old, forsook The prairies for the cloud, or spring
in nook,-- That show thee, Grown, through God's abundant grace.

Behold two fleets, the
one with woe for trail, The
other, rapture.

As they sight the strait, Through which but
one can pass, Greed, urged by Hate, Drives Thraldom's
crafts with help of steam and gale.

They
feel their
way.

The guns, with which they hale, Raise jets, that look tall
elms from Hope, the gate, To Peace, the Palace; then, their speed is great,
Manoeuvering fast to head off, or assail.

Drawing the sea up for his driving steam, Greed breaks all
mirrors in his grand state room, That show him dark inevitable
doom, Close hovering, and exults: "I am Supreme.

When seas lack water for my
funnel fume, I bid life send its
every crimson stream.

in the darkness lowers
boat after boat From Freedom's fleet,
and each with lightening oars?

Treasons to God
and country are
the rowers.

They are the Gold and
Hireling Brain, that gloat On conscience
body with face down, afloat.

Why hail they Greed, to run on
menial chores From deck to deck,
or to and from all shores?

To ensure
the payment of
a note.

Meanwhile, brisk Freedom's fleets with justice manned,
And cosmic full momentum for their speed, Confront
the crafts, fired up by fiendish Greed.

A
clash
and--lo!

they pass the strait and land, Leaving in
smoldering heaps, like autumn's weed, The hulks of
thrall along time's vultured strand.

Are lust for Gold and Power
not hideous spawn Of prehistoric
reptiles, that had wings?

Where e'er those crawled, they chawed all greening things And,
when they mounted, how their lengths, full drawn, Basked barren in the sun before
the dawn, Absorbing all its rays from budding Springs?

These drain life's dawn and by
impoverishings, Draw and reduce
to pulp, frail Consciences.

Oh, yea, bewinged with legislative crime, They bask
in sunlight e'er the east sky greys, And drag the soul of
man from God's embrace Of rights and freedom.

Oh, how long a time Shall reptiles,
deadly to the Human race, Be let grow
wings and heavenward trail their slime?

What though fine graphic sketches
In magazines show them with shoulders bold Against
the nights flood-gates of dark and cold?

All effort
is but life in death-throw
stretches.

O heart and brain, who see the father
load His train with food, not for the few, but all, And hear
train-whistlings in March winds, jay call And ground-hog sniffs!

O heart and brain, it
rest with you, how long The legislative
wreckers shall prevail.

Ye have
the power to
balk them.

Regain
your
legislatures.

Man them strong And drive thence all
sleek hounds, trust-trained to trail Safe outlaws' paths
to fastnesses of wrong.

Was ever such unblushing
harlotry, Such sale of virtue in the
Market place, As by the Press?

The red paint on her
face Is Degradation's
mark.

Alas, that she, Born to bring forth the truth,
still, is so base, She kills her child and, then, to hide all trace,
Cracks bone by bone to dust, too fine to see.

O Press, poor harlot of
the tyrant, Gold, What freedom, but
from truth, hast thou to boast?

Hark, who now speaks is
murdered Truth's pale ghost: "Conceiving
life--oh, bring it forth!

aye, hold Thy
child on high with
love, as priest, the Host!

Crush not
its bones, with smile and eyes
set cold.

The focus of
all rays Passing through Nature
and the soul and mind.

It is the Sun of
Suns, around which wind The Heavens
and all the worlds.

Such is its blaze, That had it not, at intervals,
a haze, Grading both Angel and the Human-kind, The bright Arch-angel would be stricken
blind, To grope in Heaven, a Homer, sighing lays.

What less could fitly crown
Omnipotence Than Truth, the focus
of all rays in Good?

there it shines upon the Holy Rood, Breaking through
clouds, a-massing dark and dense From countless ages, Cains to Brotherhood--
With rays of pardon for the World's offense.

They
know not what
they do.

All grandeurs, gathered as a dazzling
crown For thee, in barter for thy knee's least bend, The
Demon dashed to fragments to Time's end.

There, born anew in spirit, we look
down And, in the ocean of thy prayer, Amen'd,
See but earth's monsters, with the demons drown.

Thought is truth's echo--not her
glorious eyes Beholding God, nor her white
arms of light, Lifted in worship.

Following truth, our
flight At highest range is where
our echo dies.

Oh all your
power and beauty,
earth and skys!

And,
Soul and
Mind!

your Beauty and your Might-- Truth
gathers in one flash and, catching sight Of God,
lifts high in love's full sacrifice.

Twixt Truth and Thought, what Truth is
oft is space Wherein, with intuition
for her wing, The soul mounts.

It is there I hear her sing: "Lo, Truth, so swift
aloft, Thought dies in chase, Turns earthward, and the gifts her white arms
bring, Are outshone by God's glory in her face!

" Ah,
what is
Heaven?

Such Glory that Sun-light
Seems darkness, and Mass
Music, shell-shut sound.

What we call senses here, there so abound,
The soul appears a broadening heaven in flight, Feathered and
downed with all the stars, whose white Is all hues mingled.

Oh, the
awe
profound!

For every moment
there, new Heavens astound The myriad
senses, with God's Love and Might.

If "Holy,
Holy, Holy,
Evermore?

Was not humility the Earthward
stair From highest Heaven, by which God came to men, To
show the way aloft to human ken?

Ah, by what other pass, are men to fare
Through mist and cloud, except the path, aflare With his
blest steps from Heaven, and up again?

Steps, not from star to
star, but fen to fen, That all might follow
and not one despair!

Oh,
steps
of Love!

Could we reach with our eyes Their
fulgence, we would shrink back with dismay; For, though
'tis through the world's contempt move they-- Hark!

How the hidden choirs of countless
skies Chant at all heights: "Lo, God comes by this way, And
makes world-wide, His stair to Paradise!

Oh cataracts, beyond the
angels' count, Pause and shine pendant over every
deep Of heart, mind, spirit!

how down they sweep To basic Good where, massing,
they remount, Till, mid God's "Many Mansions," high they leap, Forming
forever, joy's most splendent fount!

When, at God's fiat, Light flashed
forth, the beam Evolved a million pigments,
as it sped To every nature.

For, harboring
meaner thought were
to blaspheme.

What, if the world be chaos where
it sins, Race feuds, Creed hatreds, falsehoods gross, deceit, Intrigue
and greed, form swirling, blinding sleet?

Honor and Truth, though buried to their
chins, Look up and smile; for, though the storms still beat, The poets
show 'tis Spring, not Winter, wins.

Not mine the night that creeps beneath
Life's sea, Or lurks within Hope's ruins, sunk below
The desert, or the stagnant pool--oh, no!

Oh, once the cold of all the unsunn'd
space Was in my reptile life of soul, wing-bound; But now,
soul-free, what warmth from stars all round!

'Tis not by strength of mine, Lord, but
thy grace, My soul soars from the depths of sea, or ground,
Till, at star-heights, it meets Thee, face to face!

What but the
spirit's ladder to God's
throne Is beauty?

Ah, there,
what joy, my
prize!

Would that I had
a dove for every
boon!

The Sun is
God's great joy to
Human sight.

Oh, up
and off in
chariots, Sea!

and ride, All generations,
up, till mountain-eyed, To welcome earth-ward, God's
Supreme delight.

Imagination swirls in swallow
flight, Giddy with Beauty, deepening--Oh, how glide From star
to star, to the haloes, season-dyed And countless!

Its wings shrivel
up like
night.

Oh, yea, the Sun in
one subliming rise From Wisdom's
infinite mind!

This
Reason
knows.

It
has
no set.

There, Sense, with weals or woes
For beads, or fingers, count our
shuts of eyes, Excluding Knowledge.

God's joy to
close And all its goodness
break and drift cloud-wise?

There are two darknesses;
one where the Lord Hides beauty--that by
which men know His face.

All, in that darkness, feel His fingers trace Their
features gently, and their hearts record The feeling, as of one, whose eyes,
restored, Would see, but for the Father's close embrace.

The other is the outer
dark--a place Where hate turns black the
light upon it poured.

A spirit passed the Sun,
the Moon and Star, And dwelled and dreamed
in darkness all its own.

Ah, if where love was not, he
smiled elate, His smile at God returned, a
lightening flash That shattered him.

He saw his planets clash, Burst and, then, by
the downward law of hate, Sink and leave not a single spark, nor
ash, For the new firmament he would create.

There are
two Gods--one, Good,
the other, Ill.

They clash in Nature--so
the Persian taught, And long a sect
in Europe spread the thought.

God said, "Let
there be Light," and light
was made.

God made not darkness--that is light's exclusion, Forming a region
where, in wild confusion, Men, Nations, each a ferret, blood-eyed shade, Worry each other, till,
with disillusion For lamp, comes conscience, crying, "God Betrayed!

" Ah, in the
angel-fall from Heaven,
is hope?

The wing-whir discord of the
legion's fall From God forever,
mocks my heart's loud call.

Empty of beauty
from its base to cope, The
Earth is hollow.

Where, then, can I
grope And not be met by
echoes that appal?

shouts my mind, in wonder
that I crawl And, having skyey wings,
in hollows mope.

Does scent from bloom, or warble
from the wood, Not atmosphere the un-aerial void Twixt
thee and beauty, which thy youth enjoyed?

Fly back to earth, by memory renewed;
She fills the hollow, echoing hosts destroyed,-- With Spring,
reflecting Heaven's Triumphant Good.

in the dimple of
thy cheek, My love could live
forever and be blest.

There, with the sun, a rose-bud on
thy breast, How thou rejoicest, hastening
to speak To thy fond Father!

Oh, how vain to seek A sweeter refuge
for the Spirit's rest, Than mid thy blushes, when thou
marvelest At His great love, for, oh!

thy
heart is
meek.

in thy
Father's
arms, thou art.

Beauty is love and,
hence is heightening fire,
Consuming Nature.

All the dark can
bring To quench it,
feeds it.

how everything
Is caught in the blaze, which mounts
up high and higher!

truly, 'tis a vision to inspire The soul with transport,
more than joy can sing; For, if not for the blaze, what cold would sting Poor
mortals, who crowd round it, nigh and nigher!

Is beauty not the
camp-fire, which one host Leaves burning for
another, close behind?

Yea, yea, the
Powers Divine, O
Human Kind!

Have left their camp-fire burning on the
coast, Where they embarked from glimpse of Human mind, To give
you warmth and light to hold your post.

All beings, legioning
celestial light, Moved in procession
toward a vacant throne.

Their chant was
faith and hope, as,
now, our own.

At last,
it came to pass, their faith
grew sight.

They saw One Star in night's down-fall, stay white And, by the
Holy Spirit brighter blown, Ascend in Heaven, till there, as high
and lone, As over Nature's marveling zenith height.

Reaching
the throne, its queen,
this star became.

God lets drop blue doves which ground the
mind Like clover; then, with drawing to the skies,
His pleasure is to watch the flocks arise.

Oh, to his love,
how great our
spirit's worth!

Each
is as
all.

In heaven,
no heart still
heaves.

This
temple is
soul-startling.

'Tis to me A thunder
storm in stone, with Sinai flare
Across the Ages.

'Tis the Fiend's
despair And the Arch-angel's
Triumph.

It sets free The mind and soul
with certitude, Christ's key Which, like the Sun,
opes Heaven--the Good and Fair.

Still, oft, what darkness
drowns the sun's noon glare Within
the Temple!

'Tis
from
Calvary.

Oh, 'tis
from
Calvary's grief.

With heart pain and with
quiver of the lip, I bid my boy
"good bye," with words of cheer.

I hug him to my heart to hide a tear,
And hold him close so long, that no tongue-slip Could more betray my
bodings for his ship, Or troop, when landed.

It is when I hear My daughters'
voices, that I shame off fear And take my
boy's both hands with firmest grip.

Dost thou, mad Kaiser,
for historic name, Set
fire to Europe?

O
Twin of
Chaos!

peer
thou through the
haze!

'Tis Human
Beings feed the crackling
flame.

Beware, the smoke, like Etna's, is the curse Of
widows on thy people-dooming throne, And in no country, more than in
thine own, Cry out all mothers: "Wherefore bear and nurse?

To feed war with our
sons, our flesh and bone, That chaos
may reclaim the Universe?

" The German mother has
too long been what A Chancellor
once called the "Kingdom's Cow.

" Ah, as she bears the droves for
slaughter, how Her dumb-beast eyes crave
pity for her lot!

See, there she smiles, like
loving God forgot-- All His
supernal patience on her brow.

How long must her grand
arch of brain, as now, Bear up a
universe "of what should not"?

There, lies she, crushed by troops in hot pursuit
Of mocking shadows; for be Gain complete, What is
it but twin brother to defeat?

Stand up the
dead on any bloody
route.

Stoop for no
kiss from orphans, at
thy feet, O Triumph!

for ash-cord
is all
thy fruit.

O
fair, full
moon!

I
look close at thy
face.

Thou must be happy, being
in the skys; And, yet, thy flush grows
pallor to mine eyes.

Thou art as one, who
breathless after chase, Would rest, but dreads to
check her onward pace.

O fugitive from where no fledgling
flies, No bee finds bud, and where red billows rise, Engulfing
down dark years, the Human Race!

O thou pale moon, who
hast companioned Man Through every
darkness since the night's first fall!

How glares the tiger
in his desert lair--
Now half the world!

Beholding with dismay That Human Freedom is
the tiger's prey, A giant, down whose shoulders, broad and bare, The long, thick, crimson
flow is Sampson's hair, Makes haste to clutch the beast.

Oh, how the clay beneath their
struggle, reddens, night and day, Till lies the
beast, a shapeless carcass there!

Where flies our flag is
Freedom's holy ground; There, it unfurls
all benisons to Man.

The twin of Spring, its spread unfolds
God's plan Of human happiness, by setting bound To
greed, lust, powers,--all colds,--that Right be crowned.

where it leads, ye youth form valor's van,
Mirrored and echoed by the azure's span For
ages, for Man's gain in yours is wound.

Oh, justice's Hot Gulf
Stream are ye, who open The sea, which
fiendish craft has frozen hard!

Oh, may your warmth for righteousness transform The tyrant's
artic region, with no hope in, To Freedom's Temperate Zone, which they,
who guard The planets, save from wreck by quake or storm.

Now and in life--not Virgil--breaks
a storm Of Harpies, harsh to
ear and foul to smell.

It sweeps War's
lengthening coast, where each
sea-swell Is Humans, gasping.

'tis the laughter of the
stars at Earth, And Nature's, too, with
every pitch of voice.

Earth's carnival of sheer grotesque and noise,
Where, gagged and manacled, walk Peace and Mirth, Shows Britain now, a
beast of broadening girth, Set out to crush World Freedom.

He destroys, And thinks his
bear-like rearing, planet poise That is to
influence the world's new birth.

That is why
The stars laugh, and all nature
jeers the show.

Lord, not Thy work,
the World's calamities,
But Man's.

There the brine Is anguish, and
there Triumph leaves no sign, Save wreck on
rock, and Plague, adrift on breeze.

When Nations turn from Light, in thought, or
life, Their speed is brink-ward, save Thy Mercy stay; For all
is precipice, except Thy way.

Help, Lord, for here is heightening surge of
strife; Here, clouds turn floods, coasts are wind-whirled, like spray, And
lightenings, hurling back thy light, are rife.

Religion
is
Ascension.

'Tis the flights
Of souls to summits of the
true and wise.

One, witnessing the generations rise, Sees them
a shine at countless, different heights, Where they, responding to their
inner lights, Glow, like the clouds at morn, with graded dyes.

If summits, there are depths;
if virtue, vice; Hence, 'tis life's rise
from falls, that judgment sights.

How thy Half
Century shines
over head!

'Tis an unfading rain-bow, one whose
dyes Are richer and more numerous to the
eyes Of Angels, than to ours.

Its rays, if spread Above a
flood of sin and world of dead, Give to
the drowned, new life, new earth, new skies.

Night counts her stars, but falters,
when souls rise Bright with the Grace which God's
annointed shed.

Belov'd Irene, how
great our joy to see Thine arch, aglow
with virtue's every hue!

Oh, how much more must they rejoice,
who view From inner Heaven, the arch
that is for thee, Triumphal!

for than vows like thine,
lived true, No grander arch from
earth to heaven could be.

The "Church
Triumphant" shines in lives
like thine, Calista!

'Tis the Saints' procession, shown In Dante's
vision, near Lord Jesus' throne, In greatening
splendor, never to decline.

Ah, if our minds grow dark, our hearts repine,
How, from sweet lives, dear Sister, like thine own, Be-Mothering with mercy all who
moan, A light comes, and a warmth is in its shine.

We shade our eyes, as when we face
the Sun On level with the earth, at lives all love--
The Church Triumphant, as in Heaven above!

Aye, lives all love for Christ, in every
one Who suffers wrong, or any pain thereof, As
on His Throne--such lives as thine, dear Nun.

Once, blindness was a burning
ship at sea, With panic-stricken souls
on every deck.

The flame blew inward on
that awful wreck, Burning the hopes that
make life glad and free.

then, through thee, it was, Philanthropy, Who trains
her searchlight on the smallest speck And Speed out boats, like horses, neck
to neck, Reached the dark hulk and thrilled its crew with glee.

The flame
is quenched, that burned out
heart and brain.

The ship where
woe was mute, is
loud with joy.

hear the cheer
on board, and cry,
"Ahoy!

" As fast the sails are hoisted, and the
main Tides back toward hope for every girl and boy,
Who, else, might reach no star of night's whole train.

Above and under
life, eternally, A subtle light
and dark run parallel.

One prompts men to build Beauty, cell
by cell, In Home, Religion, State, Society; The
other, to destroy the fair they see.

Like Spring, wilt thou
roof Earth with bloom and
dwell Thereunder?

or, with Scalping
Winter's yell, Scour
grove and bush?

Choose--how
else art thou
free?

If Freedom is the gift of
the all-wise, It is because he will not
have a slave To serve Him.

Which wilt
thou be,
base or brave?

With Morn, climb, or, with Night, skulk down the
skies To grope in caverns, or beneath the wave, Creep, till
aghast at monsters that arise?

The stars that calm the sailor, long sea-swirled,
And canopy fond lovers from the World, And
those that lead the heart and spirit, blend.

Lo, only in the things and thoughts that tend Toward
Love's High Harmony, is truth unfurled; All else are lies, whence heart, soul,
mind are hurled Back to the Right--to Progress without end.

The stars
all chant
as one.

from out the depths
thy coast Was lifted skyward for
Humanity.

Thy Life, once finny circlings
in the sea, Is now the orbits of the starry
host, Encircling God with trust.

Be this thy boast, When the long line of Ages,
passing thee, Lifts each his heart and soul, and shouts with glee, "That
Trust in Him was Sentinel on post.

On toward the Senate scuds
a thunder-rack-- Nay, cyclone--and the columns--all star-straight-- Of Freedom's
Temple sway with the roof's flood-weight.

Ye Stalwarts who scorn
off a fate, pitch-black, Holding the
columns, let no sinew slack.

A crash and
through the roof, what
floods of hate!

Still, ye budge not, for
"Freedom," your teeth grate, "Shall lie no wreck
along the cyclone's track.

" Oh, not for you was dark
the time to slumber, But to hold
Freedom's columns all star-plumb!

Yours was a watery grave, but Martyrdom And,
hence, your resurrection with the number, Whose greatness greatens, as the Ages
come To know why their pathway, no wrecks encumber.

O
Bastile
Builder!

Deliver thee, who, put
on Freedom's back, Would'st grab all things,
at which thy Past-eyes gaped.

Freedom would humor thee;
so, down he flopped On Justice's
floor to watch thee build with blocks.

O Harvard of the
Norton wreath of gold And pearled,
Longfellow purple!

If Eliott is a speck upon
your gown, It will wash off; it is no stain to hold,
For you had let him go for being old.

Your wisdom was confirmed when to
the crown, A'gainst good folks who, like Elisha Brown, Fought
for their homes, he gave his name's renown.

for, from the smallest
bone, You reconstruct the
creature, tongue to tail.

Tell us
what Eliott
is.

No; tis the prehistoric monster,
known As Tory, that devoured young Nathan Hale And,
where it crawled, spread horror's crimson zone.

Your heart is not
a traitor to
your mind.

Who, knowing innocence in danger, dares Not turn his
eye, for fear of smirk, or stares, By other courts, is Justice's statue
blind, That to the wall, not Bench, should be assigned.

Oft, Precedent is Folly with gray
hairs; So you, recalling Junius, heard the prayers
Of friendless Stilow; then, what did you find?

A fellow man
doomed wrongfully to
die A felon's death.

If such was Stilow's fate, You saw,
the felon would have been the State; Hence, turned from
Precedent, demanding "Why?

" Justice, asleep in marble,
woke and straight Unroofed the courthouse to
let down the sky.

A Dukedom, and not one
the worse for wear, Has Sims well earned by
service to the King.

" The Eagle with his eye
and pinion, trained For mateship with the
sun, twitched at a sting.

Amazed to find a "cootie" on his wing, And
that the insect dreamed, it was ordained By race heredity to serve the
King-- He shook his plume and azured, unprofained.

In English nature,
did Saint George prevail Over
the Dragon?

Maybe in the time When England knew not
poverty, nor crime, Described by Cobbett, who would not go
bail For falsehood, nor let truth remain in jail.

It must, then,
have renewed life from
its slime, For, oh!

through deeds, that turn the
blood to chyme And eyes white inward,
see him ride the gale.

In English nature--oh,
where now the saint-- The spirit, to
sublime conceptions, true?

Has good Saint George, too woundful to renew
His conflict with the dragon of base taint, Been caught
up by Elias from earth's view?

How, else, the
dragon's rage in
irrestraint?

The dragon
is grim
greed.

The Saint's long spear,
That once transfixed it,
can no longer touch.

The Dragon's
soarings cause the sun's
eclypse.

is that thunder,
God's collapsing
skys?

A conflict,
this, refracted, cloud
to cloud!

Where a
white
summit?

Under crimson
seas, And these still
hightening.

Through far azure, Peace
Listens and, eager, peeps;
then, turns headbowed.

The conflict circling
earth, all plains are ploughed New
rows of gulches.

can aught appease The
Dragon with fiend thirst's
eternities For tongue!

The sun
might, if it were
well sloughed.

The Dragon, mounting, draws aloft earth's
slime With which to dim the all-producing Sun From broadening
light and warmth for every one; But, look!

The Eagle, with the thirst
sublime Of Justice, that the right
on earth be done-- Flashes and--hark!

'Tis
earth's Te-Deum
chime!

The grace
to soul to scorn to
be mere thing.

" I cried,
and they answered
me.

What sayest thou, Oh meadow, That
stretches so wide, so far, That none can say how many
Thy misty marguerites are?

And what say ye, red roses, That
o'er the sun-blanched wall From your high black-shadowed
trellis Like flame or blood-drops fall?

"We are born, we are reared, and we linger
A various space and die; We dream, and are bright and
happy, But we cannot answer why.

" What sayest thou, Oh shadow, That
from the dreaming hill All down the broadening
valley Liest so sharp and still?

"We are born, we are reared, and we linger
A various space and die; We dream and are very happy,
But we cannot answer why.

May thy passing joyous be To thy father, the
great sea, For the sun is getting stronger; Earth hath need of
thee no longer; Go, kind snow, God-speed to thee!

I break the spirit's cloudy bands, A wanderer
in enchanted lands, I feel the sun upon my hands; And far
from care and strife The broad earth bids me forth.

I rise
With lifted brow and
upward eyes.

I bathe my spirit
in blue skies, And taste the
springs of life.

There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods,
In the heart of the listening solitudes, Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows,
not few, And all the notes of their throats are true.

The thrush from the innermost ash takes on A tender
dream of the treasured and gone; But the sparrow singeth with pride and
cheer Of the might and light of the present and here.

There is shining of flowers in the deep wet woods,
In the heart of the sensitive solitudes, The roseate bell and
the lily are there, And every leaf of their sheaf is fair.

Careless and bold, without dream of woe, The
trilliums scatter their flags snow; But the pale wood-daffodil covers her
face, Agloom with the doom of a sorrowful race.

The vesper-sparrow's song, the stress Of yearning
notes that gush and stream, The lyric joy, the
tenderness, And once again the dream!

A touch of far-off joy and power, A
something it is life to learn, Comes back to earth, and one
short hour The glamours of the gods return.

This life's old mood and cult of care Falls
smitten by an older truth, And the gray world wins back
to her The rapture of her vanished youth.

Dead thoughts revive, and he that heeds Shall hear,
as by a spirit led, A song among the golden
reeds: "The gods are vanished but not dead!

" For one short hour; unseen yet near,
They haunt us, a forgotten mood, A glory upon
mead and mere, A magic in the leafless wood.

At morning we shall catch the glow Of
Dian's quiver on the hill, And somewhere in the glades
I know That Pan is at his piping still.

" Now though no more by marsh or stream Or dewy
forest sounds the secret reed-- For Pan is gone--Ah yet, the
infinite dream Still lives for them that heed.

An old-world joyousness supreme, The warmth
and glow of an immortal balm, The mood-touch of the gods, the
endless dream, The high lethean calm.

They see, wide on the eternal way, The
services of earth, the life of man; And, listening to the
magic cry they say: "It is the note of Pan!

Here the slim-pinioned swallows sweep and pass Down to
the far-off river; the black crow With wise and wary visage to and fro
Settles and stalks about the withered grass.

Here, too, the robins, lusty as of old, Hunt
the waste grass for forage, or prolong From every quarter of
these fields the bold, Blithe phrases of their never-finished song.

The white-throat's distant descant with slow stress Note after
note upon the noonday falls, Filling the leisured air at intervals
With his own mood of piercing pensiveness.

Grief was my master yesternight;
To-morrow I may grieve again; But now along the
windy plain The clouds have taken flight.

The roads far off are towered with dust;
The cherry-blooms are swept and thinned; In yonder swaying elms
the wind Is charging gust on gust.

But here there is no stir at all; The
ministers of sun and shadow Horde all the perfumes of
the meadow Behind a grassy wall.

An infant rivulet wind-free Adown
the guarded hollow sets, Over whose brink the violets
Are nodding peacefully.

From pool to pool it prattles by; The
flashing swallows dip and pass, Above the tufted marish
grass, And here at rest am I.

I care not for the old distress,
Nor if to-morrow bid me moan; To-day is mine, and I
have known An hour of blessedness.

I passed through the gates of the city, The
streets were strange and still, Through the doors of the open
churches The organs were moaning shrill.

I strayed through the midst
of the city Like one
distracted or mad.

" I kept saying,
And the very
word seemed sad.

I passed through the gates of the city,
And I heard the small birds sing, I laid me down
in the meadows Afar from the bell-ringing.

In the depth and the bloom of the meadows
I lay on the earth's quiet breast, The poplar fanned me with shadows,
And the veery sang me to rest.

Blue, blue was the heaven
above me, And the earth green
at my feet; "Oh, Life!

" I kept saying,
And the very
word seemed sweet.

High in the hills the solitary thrush Tunes magically
his music of fine dreams, In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams; And wide and far
on nebulous fields aflush The mellow morning gleams.

The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there, The meadow's bold-eyed
gypsies deep of hue, And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair,
And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew.

Dim surging motions and uneasy dreads Scare the light
slumber from men's busy eyes, And parted lovers on their restless
beds Toss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs.

Ah,
the
distance!

Blue
and broad and
dim!

Peace is not in
burgh or meadow, But
beyond the rim.

Aye, beyond it, far beyond it; Follow
still my soul, Till this earth is lost in heaven,
And thou feel'st the whole.

And yet a moment more, Out of the silent wood,
As if from the closing door Of another world and another
lovelier mood, Hear'st thou the hermit pour-- So sweet!

-- His golden
music, ghostly
beautiful.

But when the fourth day came--at noon, The darkness and
the rain were by; The sunward roofs were steaming dry; And all the world
was flecked and strewn With shadows from a fleecy sky.

The haymakers were
forth and gone, And every
rillet laughed and shone.

With a turn of his magical rod,
That extended and suddenly shone, From the round of his
glory some god Looks forth and is gone.

To the summit of heaven the clouds
Are rolling aloft like steam; There's a break in their
infinite shrouds, And below it a gleam.

O'er the drift of the river a whiff
Comes out from the blossoming shore; And the meadows are greening,
as if They never were green before.

The islands are kindled with gold And
russet and emerald dye; And the interval
waters outrolled Are more blue than the sky.

From my feet to the heart of the hills The
spirits of May intervene, And a vapor of azure
distills Like a breath on the opaline green.

--and then The chill and the shadow
decline, On the eyes of rejuvenate
men That were wide and divine.

The full, clear moon uprose and spread Her
cold, pale splendor o'er the sea; A light-strewn path that seemed to
lead Outward into eternity.

Between the darkness and the gleam An
old-world spell encompassed me: Methought that in a godlike
dream I trod upon the sea.

What would'st thou have for easement after grief, When
the rude world hath used thee with despite, And care sits at thine elbow
day and night, Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief?

On such a day the shrunken stream Spends
its last water and runs dry; Clouds like far turrets in a
dream Stand baseless in the burning sky.

On such a day at every rod
The toilers in the hay-field halt, With dripping brows, and
the parched sod Yields to the crushing foot like salt.

I watch the swinging currents go Far
down to where, enclosed and piled, The logs crowd, and the Gatineau
Comes rushing from the northern wild.

I see the long low point, where close The shore-lines,
and the waters end, I watch the barges pass in rows
That vanish at the tapering bend.

I see no more the barges pass, Nor
mark the ripple round the pier, And all the uproar, mass
on mass, Falls dead upon a vacant ear.

Beyond the tumult of the mills, And all
the city's sound and strife, Beyond the waste, beyond the
hills, I look far out and dream of life.

Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines Break
the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake, Already in the frost-clear
morns awake The crash and thunder of the falling pines.

With what doubting eyes, oh sparrow,
Thou regardest me, Underneath yon spray of
yarrow, Dipping cautiously.

Fear me not, oh little sparrow,
Bathe and never fear, For to me both pool and
yarrow And thyself are dear.

And on beside
the river's sober edge A long
fresh field lies black.

Beyond, Low thickets gray and reddish stand,
Stroked white with birch; and near at hand, Over a little steel-smooth pond,
Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.

Across a waste and solitary rise A
ploughman urges his dull team, A stooped gray figure with prone brow That
plunges bending to the plough With strong, uneven steps.

The stream Rings and
re-echoes with his
furious cries.

Sometimes the lowing of a cow,
long-drawn, Comes from far off; and crows in strings Pass
on the upper silences.

A flock of small gray goldfinches,
Flown down with silvery twitterings, Rustle
among the birch-cones and are gone.

It was a bleak and sandy spot, And, all
about, the vacant plot Was peopled and inhabited
By scores of mulleins long since dead.

There was no sound
about the wood Save
the wind's secret stir.

I stood Among the mullein-stalks as still
As if myself had grown to be One of their sombre
company, A body without wish or will.

Now overhead, Where the rivulet loiters and
stops, The bittersweet hangs from the tops Of the alders and cherries
Its bunches of beautiful berries, Orange and red.

And the snowbirds flee, Tossing up on the far
brown field, Now flashing and now concealed, Like fringes of spray That
vanish and gleam on the gray Field of the sea.

Flickering light, Come the last of the leaves
down borne, And patches of pale white corn In the wind complain, Like
the slow rustle of rain Noticed by night.

Withered and thinned, The sentinel mullein looms,
With the pale gray shadowy plumes Of the goldenrod; And the
milkweed opens its pod, Tempting the wind.

Aloft on the hill, A cloudrift opens and
shines Through a break in its gorget of pines, And it dreams at my feet
In a sad, silvery sheet, Utterly still.

All things that be Seem plunged into silence, distraught,
By some stern, some necessitous thought: It wraps and enthralls Marsh,
meadow, and forest; and falls Also on me.

Along the narrow sandy height I watch them swiftly
come and go, Or round the leafless wood, Like flurries of wind-driven snow, Revolving in
perpetual flight, A changing multitude.

White are the far-off plains, and white The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height, And denser still the snow, A gathering
weight on roof and tree, Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills Apace, and all
about The fences dwindle, and the hills Are blotted slowly out; The
naked trees loom spectrally Into the dim white sky.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams The snow-fall hoods me round; In wood and
water, earth and air, A silence everywhere.

The evening deepens, and the gray Folds closer earth
and sky; The world seems shrouded far away; Its noises sleep, and I, As
secret as yon buried stream, Plod dumbly on, and dream.

From this windy bridge at rest, In some former
curious hour, We have watched the city's hue, All along the orange west, Cupola
and pointed tower, Darken into solid blue.

Subtly conscious, all awake, Let
us clear our eyes, and break Through the cloudy
chrysalis, See the wonder as it is.

Creeping by the sullen wall, We forego the power to
see, The threads that bind us to the All, God or the Immensity; Whereof
on the eternal road Man is but a passing mode.

Up the fielded slopes at morn, Where
light wefts of shadow pass, Films upon the bending
corn, I shall sweep the purple grass.

Sun-crowned heights and mossy woods, And
the outer solitudes, Mountain-valleys, dim with
pine, Shall be home and haunt of mine.

I shall search in crannied hollows, Where the sunlight scarcely
follows, And the secret forest brook Murmurs, and from nook to nook Forever
downward curls and cools, Frothing in the bouldered pools.

I shall stray by
many a stream, Where
the half-shut lilies gleam.

Napping out the sultry days In the quiet
secluded bays; Where the tasseled rushes tower,
O'er the purple pickerel-flower.

I shall hear the grasshoppers
From the parched grass rehearse, And with drowsy note prolong
Evermore the same thin song.

I shall hear the crickets tell Stories by the humming
well, And mark the locust, with quaint eyes, Caper in his cloak of gray Like
a jester in disguise Rattling by the dusty way.

I shall dream by upland fences, Where the season's wealth
condenses Over many a weedy wreck, Wild, uncared-for, desert places, That sovereign
Beauty loves to deck With her softest, dearest graces.

There the long year dreams
in quiet, And the summer's
strength runs riot.

Shall I not remember
these, Deep in winter
reveries?

It holds
me
fast.

A drifting, April, twilight sky, A wind which
blew the puddles dry, And slapped the river into waves That ran
and hid among the staves Of an old wharf.

A watery light Touched bleak the granite
bridge, and white Without the slightest tinge of gold,
The city shivered in the cold.

All day my thoughts
had lain as dead, Unborn and
bursting in my head.

From time to time I wrote
a word Which lines and circles
overscored.

My table seemed a
graveyard, full Of coffins waiting
burial.

I seized these vile abortions, tore
Them into jagged bits, and swore To be
the dupe of hope no more.

Into the evening
straight I went, Starved of a
day's accomplishment.

Unnoticing, I wandered where The city gave a
space for air, And on the bridge's parapet I leant, while
pallidly there set A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.

Behind me, where the tramways run,
Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, When
someone plucked me by the sleeve.

"Your pardon, Sir, but I should
be Most grateful could you lend to me A
carfare, I have lost my purse.

" The voice
was clear, concise,
and terse.

I turned and met
the quiet gaze Of strange
eyes flashing through the haze.

Like some Spanish don, Conferring
favours even when Asking an alms, he
bowed again And waited.

But my pockets proved Empty,
in vain I poked and shoved, No hidden penny
lurking there Greeted my search.

"Sir, I declare I have
no money, pray forgive, But let me
take you where you live.

" And so we plodded
through the mire Where street lamps
cast a wavering fire.

I took no note of where we
went, His talk became the element Wherein
my being swam, content.

It flashed like rapiers in the night
Lit by uncertain candle-light, When on some moon-forsaken
sward A quarrel dies upon a sword.

It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, And the
noise in the air the broad words made Was the cry of the wind at a
window-pane On an Autumn night of sobbing rain.

I walked as though some
opiate Had stung and dulled my
brain, a state Acute and slumbrous.

We stopped, a
house stood silent,
dark.

From the chimney, red
eyes sparked the gloom, And a cricket's
chirp filled all the room.

My host threw pine-cones on the fire
And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre Wrapped
in the golden flame's desire.

The chamber opened like an eye, As a
half-melted cloud in a Summer sky The soul of the house stood guessed,
and shy It peered at the stranger warily.

A little shop with
its various ware Spread on
shelves with nicest care.

Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, Pipkins,
and mugs, and many lots Of lacquered canisters, black and
gold, Like those in which Chinese tea is sold.

Chests, and puncheons,
kegs, and flasks, Goblets, chalices,
firkins, and casks.

In a corner three ancient
amphorae leaned Against the wall,
like ships careened.

There was dusky blue of Wedgewood
ware, The carved, white figures fluttering there Like
leaves adrift upon the air.

Classic in touch, but
emasculate, The Greek soul
grown effeminate.

Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, Hand on heart, and
daintily spelt Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, Artificial
and fragile, which told aright The vows of an eighteenth-century knight.

The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs Glared
from one shelf, where Toby mugs Endlessly drank the foaming ale,
Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale.

"Ah, I see,"
Said I, "you deal
in pottery.

" The old man
turned and looked
at me.

Shook his
head
gently.

Then from under his cloak he took the
thing Which I had wondered to see him bring Guarded
so carefully from sight.

The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, 'Twas a little
careless to have it beneath My cloak, for a jostle to my
arm Would have resulted in serious harm.

But it was so fine,
I could not wait, So I brought it
with me despite its state.

" "An amateur of
arms," I thought, "Bringing home a
prize which he has bought.

" "You care
for this sort
of thing, Dear Sir?

" "Not in
the way which you
infer.

I need
them in business,
that is all.

" And he
pointed his finger
at the wall.

Then I saw
what I had not
noticed before.

The walls were hung with at least five
score Of swords and daggers of every size Which
nations of militant men could devise.

Poisoned spears from tropic seas, That
natives, under banana trees, Smear with
the juice of some deadly snake.

Blood-dipped arrows, which savages
make And tip with feathers, orange and green, A
quivering death, in harlequin sheen.

High up, a fan of
glancing steel Was formed of
claymores in a wheel.

Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees Were suspended
next midshipmen's dirks, and these Elbowed stilettos come from Spain,
Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name.

Foils with buttons broken or
lost Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed
The boarding-pike of a privateer.

Against the chimney leaned
a queer Two-handed weapon, with edges dull As
though from hacking on a skull.

The rusted
blood corroded
it still.

My host took up a paper
spill From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, And lighted
it at a burning coal.

At either end of the table,
tall Wax candles were placed, each in a small, And slim,
and burnished candlestick Of pewter.

The old man lit each wick, And the room leapt
more obviously Upon my mind, and I could see
What the flickering fire had hid from me.

My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear A battle-cry
from somewhere near, The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, And
the echoless thud when a dead man falls.

A smoky cloud had veiled the room, Shot
through with lurid glares; the gloom Pounded with shouts and dying
groans, With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones.

Sabres and lances in streaks of light Gleamed
through the smoke, and at my right A creese, like a licking serpent's
tongue, Glittered an instant, while it stung.

Streams, and
points, and lines of
fire!

The livid steel, which man's
desire Had forged and welded,
burned white and cold.

Nerveless and shaking, round and round, I stared at
the walls and at the ground, Till the room spun like a whipping
top, And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop!

I sell
no tools for
murderers here.

Of what
are you
thinking!

Please clear Your
mind of such
imaginings.

I will
tell you
of these things.

" He pushed me into a great chair Of russet
leather, poked a flare Of tumbling flame, with the old
long sword, Up the chimney; but said no word.

Slowly he walked to
a distant shelf, And brought back a
crock of finest delf.

He rested a moment a blue-veined
hand Upon the cover, then cut a band Of paper,
pasted neatly round, Opened and poured.

A sliding sound Came from beneath
his old white hands, And I saw a little
heap of sands, Black and smooth.

What could they
be: "Pepper,"
I thought.

He looked
at
me.

"What you
see is poppy
seed.

Lethean
dreams for those in
need.

" He took up the grains
with a gentle hand And sifted
them slowly like hour-glass sand.

On his old white finger
the almandine Shot out its
rays, incarnadine.

"Visions
for those too tired
to sleep.

These seeds cast
a film over
eyes which weep.

No single soul
in the world could dwell, Without
these poppy-seeds I sell.

" For a moment he
played with the shining stuff, Passing
it through his fingers.

Enough At last, he poured it back
into The china jar of Holland blue, Which
he carefully carried to its place.

Then, with a smile on his aged
face, He drew up a chair to the open
space 'Twixt table and chimney.

"Without preface, Young man,
I will say that what you see Is not the puzzle
you take it to be.

" "But surely, Sir, there is something
strange In a shop with goods at so wide a range Each
from the other, as swords and seeds.

Your neighbours must
have greatly differing
needs.

" "My neighbours," he said, and he
stroked his chin, "Live everywhere
from here to Pekin.

But you are wrong, my sort
of goods Is but one thing
in all its moods.

" He took a shagreen letter
case From his pocket, and with charming grace Offered
me a printed card.

I read
the legend,
"Ephraim Bard.

Dealer
in
Words.

"  And
that
was all.

I stared at the letters,
whimsical Indeed, or was
it merely a jest.

He answered my unasked request:
"All books are either dreams or swords, You can
cut, or you can drug, with words.

My firm is a very ancient
house, The entries on my books would rouse Your wonder,
perhaps incredulity.

I inherited from an ancestry Stretching remotely
back and far, This business, and my clients are As were those of my grandfather's
days, Writers of books, and poems, and plays.

My swords are tempered for every
speech, For fencing wit, or to carve a breach Through
old abuses the world condones.

These are purchased by men who feel The
need of stabbing society's heel, Which egotism has
brought them to think Is set on their necks.

I have foils to pink An adversary
to quaint reply, And I have customers who buy Scalpels
with which to dissect the brains And hearts of men.

Ultramundanes Even
demand some finer kinds To open
their own souls and minds.

But the other
half of my business deals With
visions and fancies.

Under seals, Sorted,
and placed in vessels here, I keep the seeds
of an atmosphere.

Each jar contains
a different kind Of
poppy seed.

From farthest Ind Come the purple flowers,
opium filled, From which the weirdest myths are distilled; My
orient porcelains contain them all.

Every castle of the air Sleeps in the
fine black grains, and there Are seeds for every romance,
or light Whiff of a dream for a summer night.

I supply to
every want
and taste.

" 'Twas slowly said, in no
great haste He seemed to push his wares,
but I Dumfounded listened.

By and by
A log on the
fire broke in two.

He looked
up quickly, "Sir,
and you?

" I groped for something
I should say; Amazement
held me numb.

"To-day You sweated
at a fruitless
task.

" He spoke
for me, "What do
you ask?

How
can I serve
you?

"  "My kind host, My
penniless state was not a boast; I
have no money with me.

"Not for that money
I beguiled You here; you
paid me in advance.

" Again I felt as
though a trance Had dimmed
my faculties.

Again He
spoke, and this time
to explain.

"The money I demand
is Life, Your nervous force,
your joy, your strife!

" What infamous
proposal now Was made
me with so calm a brow?

Bursting through my lethargy,
Indignantly I hurled the cry: "Is this a nightmare,
or am I Drunk with some infernal wine?

I am no
Faust, and what is mine Is
what I call my soul!

Devil
or
Ghost!

Your hellish
plan Revolts
me.

"  "My child," And the old tones were very
mild, "I have no wish to barter souls; My traffic
does not ask such tolls.

I am
no devil;
is there one?

Surely
the age of
fear is gone.

We live within a daylight world Lit by
the sun, where winds unfurled Sweep clouds to scatter pattering
rain, And then blow back the sun again.

I sell my fancies, or my swords, To those
who care far more for words, Ideas, of which they
are the sign, Than any other life-design.

I claim for all the goods I
sell That they will serve their purpose well,
And though you perish, they will live.

Full measure
for your pay
I give.

To-day you
worked, you
thought, in vain.

What since has happened
is the train Your toiling
brought.

I spoke to you
For my share of the
bargain, due.

And is
that all you crave
In pay?

What
even
childhood gave!

I have
been dedicate
from youth.

Before my
God I speak
the truth!

" Fatigue, excitement
of the past Few hours broke me
down at last.

All day I had
forgot to eat, My nerves betrayed
me, lacking meat.

I bowed my head and
felt the storm Plough shattering
through my prostrate form.

The
tearless sobs
tore at my heart.

My host withdrew himself apart;
Busied among his crockery, He paid
no farther heed to me.

Exhausted, spent, I
huddled there, Within the arms
of the old carved chair.

A long half-hour dragged away, And then
I heard a kind voice say, "The day will soon be dawning, when
You must begin to work again.

Here are the
things which you
require.

" By the fading light of the dying
fire, And by the guttering candle's flare,
I saw the old man standing there.

He handed me a
packet, tied With crimson
tape, and sealed.

"Inside Are seeds of many differing
flowers, To occupy your utmost powers Of storied vision,
and these swords Are the finest which my shop affords.

Go home and use them; do
not spare Yourself; let that
be all your care.

Whatever you have means
to buy Be very sure
I can supply.

" He slowly walked to the window,
flung It open, and in the grey air rung The
sound of distant matin bells.

I
took my
parcels.

Then, as tells An ancient mumbling
monk his beads, I tried to thank for his
courteous deeds My strange old friend.

"Nay, do not talk," He
urged me, "you have a long
walk Before you.

" And gently sped upon my way I stumbled
out in the morning hush, As down the empty street a flush
Ran level from the rising sun.

Another
day was just
begun.

Over the housetops, Above the rotating chimney-pots,
I have seen a shiver of amethyst, And blue and cinnamon have flickered
A moment, At the far end of a dusty street.

Through sheeted rain Has come a lustre
of crimson, And I have watched moonbeams Hushed by
a film of palest green.

It was
her wings,
Goddess!

Who stepped over the clouds, And
laid her rainbow feathers Aslant on
the currents of the air.

I followed her for
long, With gazing eyes and
stumbling feet.

I followed,
And watched for the flashing
of her wings.

In the city
I found her, The narrow-streeted
city.

In the market-place I
came upon her, Bound
and trembling.

Her fluted wings were fastened to
her sides with cords, She was naked and cold, For that
day the wind blew Without sunshine.

Men chaffered for her, They bargained
in silver and gold, In copper, in wheat, And
called their bids across the market-place.

The tall yellow hollyhocks stand,
Still and straight, With their round blossoms spread open,
In the quiet sunshine.

And still is the old Roman wall, Rough
with jagged bits of flint, And jutting stones, Old and
cragged, Quite still in its antiquity.

The pear-trees press their branches against it,
And feeling it warm and kindly, The little
pears ripen to yellow and red.

They hang heavy,
bursting with juice, Against
the wall.

So
old,
so still!

The sky
is
still.

The clouds make no sound As they
slide away Beyond the Cathedral Tower,
To the river, And the sea.

It is
very quiet, Very
sunny.

The myrtle flowers
stretch themselves in the sunshine,
But make no sound.

The roses push their
little tendrils up, And climb
higher and higher.

In spots
they have climbed
over the wall.

But they are very
still, They do not
seem to move.

And the old wall carries them
Without effort, and quietly Ripens
and shields the vines and blossoms.

A bird in a plane-tree Sings
a few notes, Cadenced and perfect They
weave into the silence.

The Cathedral
bell knocks, One, two, three, and again,
And then again.

It is a quiet sound, Calling
to prayer, Hardly scattering the stillness, Only
making it close in more densely.

The gardener
picks ripe gooseberries For the
Dean's supper to-night.

It is very quiet,
Very regulated
and mellow.

But the wall
is old, It has known
many days.

It is a Roman
wall, Left-over and
forgotten.

Beyond the Cathedral
Close Yelp and mutter the discontents of
people not mellow, Not well-regulated.

People who care more for bread than for beauty,
Who would break the tombs of saints, And give the painted windows
of churches To their children for toys.

People who
say: "They are dead,
we live!

The world is
for the
living.

It is
always the
dead who breed.

Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it
aside, Yet its seeds shall fructify, And
trees rise where your huts were standing.

But the little
people are ignorant,
They chaffer, and swarm.

They gnaw like rats, And
the foundations of the Cathedral
are honeycombed.

The Dean is in the Chapter House; He
is reading the architect's bill For the completed
restoration of the Cathedral.

He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, And then he will walk
up and down the path By the wall, And admire the snapdragons and dahlias,
Thinking how quiet and peaceful The garden is.

The old wall will watch
him, Very quietly and
patiently it will watch.

For the wall
is old, It is
a Roman wall.

Spread on the roadway, With open-blown
jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down
the hillside, The Cyclists.

Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after
carrion, Careening and circling,
Over the dying Of England.

She lies with her bosom Beneath
them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The
Virile--but rotting Before time.

The smell of
her, tainted, Has
bitten their nostrils.

What charm is yours, you faded old-world
tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague
pageants woven on a web of dream!

And we, pushing and fighting
in the turbid stream Of modern life, find solace
in your tarnished broideries.

Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge
cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal
stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints.

Carven cathedrals, on a sky
Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly
And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.

Worm-eaten pages, clasped in
old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling,
by some anxious monk.

Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven
With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah's
ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.

They have watered the street, It shines in
the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a
slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black.

Cabs go down it,
One, And then
another.

Between them I
hear the shuffling
of feet.

Tramps doze on
the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along
the sidewalks.

The city is squalid and
sinister, With the silver-barred street in the
midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
The moon cuts, Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.

She cannot
light the city;
It is too bright.

It has
white lamps, And
glitters coldly.

I stand in
the window and watch
the moon.

She is thin and
lustreless, But
I love her.

I know the
moon, And this is an
alien city.

To Ezra Pound With much friendship and admiration
and some differences of opinion The Poet took his
walking-stick Of fine and polished ebony.

Set in the close-grained wood Were quaint
devices; Patterns in ambers, And
in the clouded green of jades.

The top was of smooth, yellow ivory,
And a tassel of tarnished gold Hung by a faded cord from
a hole Pierced in the hard wood, Circled with silver.

For years the
Poet had wrought upon
this cane.

His wealth had gone to enrich it, His
experiences to pattern it, His labour
to fashion and burnish it.

To him it was perfect,
A work of art and a weapon, A
delight and a defence.

The Poet
took his walking-stick
And walked abroad.

Peace be
with you,
Brother.

The Poet
came to a
meadow.

Sifted through the grass
were daisies, Open-mouthed, wondering,
they gazed at the sun.

The Poet
struck them with his
cane.

The little heads flew off, and
they lay Dying, open-mouthed and
wondering, On the hard ground.

They are not
roses," said
the Poet.

The Poet
came to
a stream.

Purple and blue flags waded in
the water; In among them hopped the speckled frogs;
The wind slid through them, rustling.

The Poet lifted his
cane, And the iris heads fell
into the water.

They floated
away, torn
and drowning.

"Wretched flowers,"
said the Poet, "They are
not roses.

It
is your
affair.

The Poet
came to a
garden.

Dahlias ripened against a wall, Gillyflowers
stood up bravely for all their short stature, And a trumpet-vine covered
an arbour With the red and gold of its blossoms.

Red and gold
like the brass notes
of trumpets.

The Poet knocked off the stiff heads
of the dahlias, And his cane lopped the
gillyflowers at the ground.

Then he
severed the trumpet-blossoms
from their stems.

Red and gold they lay scattered,
Red and gold, as on a battle field; Red
and gold, prone and dying.

"They were not
roses," said
the Poet.

But behind you
is destruction,
and waste places.

The Poet came home
at evening, And in the candle-light He
wiped and polished his cane.

The orange candle flame leaped
in the yellow ambers, And made the jades
undulate like green pools.

It played along the
bright ebony, And glowed in
the top of cream-coloured ivory.

But these things were
dead, Only the candle-light made
them seem to move.

"It is a pity
there were no roses,"
said the Poet.

He perches in
the slime, inert, Bedaubed with
iridescent dirt.

The ground is here
and there bestud With lumps
of only part-burned coal.

Their sharp and glistening
edges cut His stiffened
fingers.

Through the smut
Gleam red the wounds which
will not shut.

Wet through and shivering
he kneels And digs the slippery coals; like
eels They slide about.

His force all
spent, He counts his small
accomplishment.

A half-a-dozen clinker-coals Which
still have fire
in their souls.

And in his thought
there burns The topaz fire
of votive urns.

He sees it fling
from hill to hill, And still consumed,
is burning still.

Higher and higher
leaps the flame, The smoke an
ever-shifting frame.

He sees a Spanish
Castle old, With silver steps
and paths of gold.

From myrtle bowers comes the plash Of
fountains, and the emerald flash Of parrots in the
orange trees, Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.

He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke Bears
visions, that his master-stroke Is out of dirt and misery
To light the fire of poesy.

He sees the glory,
yet he knows That others cannot
see his shows.

To them his smoke is sightless, black, His votive vessels
but a pack Of old discarded shards, his fire A peddler's; still
to him the pyre Is incensed, an enduring goal!

He sighs
and grubs another
coal.

How should I sing when buffeting
salt waves And stung with bitter surges, in
whose might I toss, a cockleshell?

No parting cloud reveals a watery star, My
cries are washed away upon the wind, My cramped and blistering hands can find
no spar, My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind.

But painted on the sky
great visions burn, My voice, oblation
from a shattered urn!

So up, and down, and forward, inch by
inch, He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow And
sandflies dance their little lives away.

When the stooping sky Leans down upon the
hills And tenderly, as one who soothing stills An anguish,
gathers earth to lie Embraced and girdled.

Do the
sun-filled men Feel patience
then?

Be
patient with
you?

When pain's iron bars Their rivets tighten, stern
To bend and break their victims; as they turn, Hopeless, there stand the
purple jars Of night to spill oblivion.

Do these
men Feel
patience then?

My sun
and
moon!

My
basketful
of flowers!

My money-bag
of shining
dreams!

My hours, Windless
and still, of
afternoon!

You are my world
and I your
citizen.

What meaning
can have patience
then?

Be not angry with me that I bear Your
colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The
wonder-light in every eye, As I go by.

Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded
by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps
me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds.

Before my feet the
dusty, rough-paved way Flushes
beneath its gray.

My steps fall ringed with light,
So bright, It seems a myriad suns
are strown About the town.

Around me is the sound of steepled
bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud
Me from close contact with the world.

You blazon me
with jewelled
insignia.

A flaming
nebula Rims in
my life.

And yet You set
The word upon me, unconfessed
To go unguessed.

I pray to be the tool which to your hand Long
use has shaped and moulded till it be Apt for your need, and,
unconsideringly, You take it for its service.

I demand To be forgotten in the woven strand
Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry Of your bright life, and through its tissues
lie A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band.

I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, The railing to
the stairway of the clouds, To guard your steps securely up, where streams A
faery moonshine washing pale the crowds Of pointed stars.

Remember not
whereby You mount, protected,
to the far-flung sky.

Before me lies a mass of shapeless
days, Unseparated atoms, and I must Sort
them apart and live them.

Sifted dust Covers
the formless
heap.

Reprieves, delays,
There are none,
ever.

As a monk who prays The sliding beads
asunder, so I thrust Each tasteless particle aside, and
just Begin again the task which never stays.

And I have known a glory
of great suns, When days flashed by, pulsing
with joy and fire!

Drunk bubbled wine in goblets
of desire, And felt the whipped
blood laughing as it runs!

Spilt is that liquor, my too
hasty hand Threw down the cup, and
did not understand.

Dearest, forgive that
with my clumsy touch I
broke and bruised your rose.

I hardly could suppose It
were a thing so fragile that my
clutch Could kill it, thus.

It stood so proudly up upon its stem, I knew
no thought of fear, And coming very near Fell, overbalanced,
to your garment's hem, Tearing it down.

Now, stooping, I upgather,
one by one, The crimson petals, all Outspread
about my fall.

They hold their
fragrance still, a blood-red cone Of
memory.

And with my words I carve a little jar To
keep their scented dust, Which, opening, you must Breathe to your soul,
and, breathing, know me far More grieved than you.

An arid daylight shines along the beach Dried to a grey
monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon The sun-baked pebbles,
far beyond their reach Sparkles a wet, reviving sea.

Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every
bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints
and knuckles hardened each to each.

And they are dead while
waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing
sea, to come again.

Their hearts are
blown away on the
hot breeze.

Only the
shells and stones can wait
to be Washed bright.

For living things, who
suffer pain, May not endure
till time can bring them ease.

Happiness, to
some, elation; Is, to others,
mere stagnation.

Days of passive
somnolence, At its wildest,
indolence.

Hours of empty
quietness, No delight, and
no distress.

Happiness to me
is wine, Effervescent,
superfine.

Full of tang and fiery
pleasure, Far too hot to leave me leisure For
a single thought beyond it.

This the bond:  it
Means to give one's soul to
gain Life's quintessence.

Even pain Pricks to livelier
living, then Wakes the nerves to laugh again, Rapture's
self is three parts sorrow.

Although we must die
to-morrow, Losing every thought but this;
Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.

Happiness:
 We rarely
feel it.

How long shall I tarnish
the mirror of life, A spatter of
rust on its polished steel!

The seasons reel
Like a goaded
wheel.

Half-numb,
half-maddened, my days
are strife.

The night is sliding
towards the dawn, And upturned
hills crouch at autumn's knees.

A torn moon flees Through
the hemlock trees, The hours
have gnawed it to feed their spawn.

Pursuing and jeering
the misshapen thing A rabble
of clouds flares out of the east.

Like dogs unleashed After
a beast, They stream on the sky,
an outflung string.

A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, Shakes the
bushes and whistles through empty nests, And the fierce unrests I keep
as guests Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

Leave me in peace, O Spectres,
who haunt My labouring mind, I
have fought and failed.

I have not quailed,
I was all unmailed And naked I
strove, 'tis my only vaunt.

The moon drops into
the silver day As waking
out of her swoon she comes.

I hear the drums Of
millenniums Beating the mornings
I still must stay.

The years I must watch go in and out, While I build
with water, and dig in air, And the trumpets blare Hollow despair,
The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.

An atom tossed in
a chaos made Of yeasting
worlds, which bubble and foam.

Whence
have
I come?

What would
be
home?

I
hear no
answer.

I crave
to be lost like
a wind-blown flame.

Pushed into nothingness by a breath, And
quench in a wreath Of engulfing death This fight
for a God, or this devil's game.

There once was a man
whom the gods didn't love, And a
disagreeable man was he.

He loathed his neighbours, and his
neighbours hated him, And he
cursed eternally.

He damned the sun, and
he damned the stars, And he blasted
the winds in the sky.

He sent to Hell every
green, growing thing, And he raved at
the birds as they fly.

His oaths were many, and his range was wide,
He swore in fancy ways; But his meaning was plain:  that no
created thing Was other than a hurt to his gaze.

He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning
hill, And windows toward the hill there were none, And on the other
side they were white-washed thick, To keep out every spark of the sun.

When he went to market he
walked all the way Blaspheming
at the path he trod.

He cursed at those he bought
of, and swore at those he sold to, By all
the names he knew of God.

For his heart was soured in
his weary old hide, And his hopes
had curdled in his breast.

His friend had been untrue,
and his love had thrown him over For the
chinking money-bags she liked best.

The rats had devoured the contents of
his grain-bin, The deer had trampled on his corn, His brook had shrivelled in
a summer drought, And his sheep had died unshorn.

His hens wouldn't lay, and
his cow broke loose, And his old horse perished
of a colic.

In the loft his wheat-bags were
nibbled into holes By little,
glutton mice on a frolic.

So he slowly lost
all he ever had, And the blood
in his body dried.

Shrunken and mean he
still lived on, And cursed that future
which had lied.

So he dug, and he
delved, with care and pain, And the veins in
his forehead stood taut.

At the end of an hour,
when every bone cracked, He
gathered up what he had sought.

A dim old vase of
crusted glass, Prismed while it
lay buried deep.

Shifting reds and greens, like
a pigeon's neck, At the touch of
the sun began to leap.

It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light;
Flashing like an opal-stone, Carved into a flagon; and the colours
glanced and ran, Where at first there had seemed to be none.

It had handles on
each side to bear it up, And a belly
for the gurgling wine.

Its neck was slender,
and its mouth was wide, And its
lip was curled and fine.

Then he carried it home, and
put it on a shelf, But it was
only grey in the gloom.

So he fetched a pail,
and a bit of cloth, And he
went outside with a broom.

The old man forgot to swear,
Watching its shadow grown a mammoth
size, Dancing in the kitchen there.

He forgot to revile
the sun next morning When he found his
vase afire in its light.

And he carried it out
of the house that day, And kept it
close beside him until night.

And so it
happened from day
to day.

The old man fed his
life On the beauty of his vase,
on its perfect shape.

And his soul
forgot its former
strife.

And the village-folk came
and begged to see The flagon which
was dug from the ground.

And the old man never
thought of an oath, in his joy At
showing what he had found.

One day the master of the village
school Passed him as he stooped at toil, Hoeing for a bean-row, and at
his side Was the vase, on the turned-up soil.

"My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and
kind, "That's a valuable thing you have there, But it might get broken
out of doors, It should meet with the utmost care.

What are you
doing with
it out here?

" "Why, Sir," said the poor
old man, "I like to have it
about, do you see?

To be with
it all
I can.

" "You will smash it," said
the schoolmaster, sternly right,
"Mark my words and see!

" And he walked away,
while the old man looked At his treasure
despondingly.

Then he
smiled to himself, for
it was his!

He had
toiled for it,
and now he cared.

loved its shape, and
its subtle, swift hues, Which his
own hard work had bared.

He would carry it
round with him everywhere, As
it gave him joy to do.

A fragile
vase should not stand in
a bean-row!

Who would dare
to say
so?

Then his heart was rested,
and his fears gave way, And he bent
to his hoe again.

A clod rolled down, and
his foot slipped back, And he lurched
with a cry of pain.

For the blade of the hoe crashed
into glass, And the vase fell to
iridescent sherds.

The old
man's body heaved with slow,
dry sobs.

He did
not curse, he had
no words.

He gathered the fragments,
one by one, And his fingers
were cut and torn.

Then he made a hole
in the very place Whence the
beautiful vase had been borne.

He covered the hole, and he
patted it down, Then he hobbled to
his house and shut the door.

He tore up his coat and
nailed it at the windows That no
beam of light should cross the floor.

He sat down in front
of the empty hearth, And he
neither ate nor drank.

In three days they found
him, dead and cold, And they said:
 "What a queer old crank!

" Have
at you, you
Devils!

My back's to this tree, For
you're nothing so nice That the hind-side of
me Would escape your assault.

Come
on now,
all three!

Here's a dandified gentleman,
Rapier at point, And a wrist which whirls
round Like a circular joint.

That's just to
anoint And make supple
your limbs.

'Tis a pity
the silk Of your waistcoat
is stained.

Your heart's full of
milk, And so full,
it spills over!

I'm
not of
your ilk.

You said so, and laughed At
my old-fashioned hose, At the cut of my hair,
At the length of my nose.

To carve it
to pattern I
think you propose.

Your pardon, young Sir, But
my nose and my sword Are proving themselves
In quite perfect accord.

I grieve to
have spotted
Your shirt.

That blade's not a stick To slash
right and left, And my skull is too thick To
be cleft with such cuffs Of a sword.

Now a
lick Down the side
of your face.

What a
pretty, red
line!

Tell the taverns
that scar Was an
honour.

Don't whine That
a stranger
has marked you.

The
tree's there, You
Swine!

Did you think to get in
At the back, while your friends Made a little
diversion In front?

So it ends, With
your sword clattering
down On the ground.

'Tis amends I make for your
courteous Reception of me, A foreigner,
landed From over the sea.

Your welcome
was fervent I
think you'll agree.

My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my
hair Oiled and scented, my jacket's Not satin, I wear Corded
breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare!

So I do, but my heart Is the heart of
a man, And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span 'Twixt
my head and my heels, As some other men's can.

I have business more strange Than the shape of my
boots, And my interests range From the sky, to the roots Of this
dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots Of a mouldering tree!

Here's
at you,
once more.

You can show me the
door, And jeer at my ways, But
you're pinked to the core.

And before I have done, I will
prick my name in With the front of my steel, And your lily-white
skin Shall be printed with me.

For
I've come here
to win!

My cup is empty to-night,
Cold and dry are its sides, Chilled by the
wind from the open window.

Empty and
void, it sparkles white
in the moonlight.

The room is filled with
the strange scent Of wistaria
blossoms.

They sway in the
moon's radiance And tap
against the wall.

But the cup of my
heart is still, And cold,
and empty.

When you come, it brims Red and trembling
with blood, Heart's blood for your drinking; To fill your mouth
with love And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.

My words are little
jars For you to take and
put upon a shelf.

Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,
And they have many pleasant colours and lustres
To recommend them.

Also the scent from them
fills the room With sweetness of
flowers and crushed grasses.

You glow in my heart
Like the flames of
uncounted candles.

But when I go to warm my hands, My
clumsiness overturns the light, And then I stumble
Against the tables and chairs.

Outside the long window, With
his head on the stone sill, The dog is
lying, Gazing at his Beloved.

His eyes are wet
and urgent, And his body
is taut and shaking.

It is cold on the terrace; A pale
wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes
through the glass And is content.

The Beloved
is writing a
letter.

Occasionally
she speaks to the dog, But she is
thinking of her writing.

Does she, too,
give her devotion to
one Not worthy?

Licking passions have bitten their arabesques
into it, And the mark of them lies, in and out, Worm-like, With the beauty
of corroded copper patterning white steel.

My brain is curved like a
scimitar, And sighs at its cutting
Like a sickle mowing grass.

But of what
use is all
this to me!

I, who am
set to crack stones In a
country lane!

My heart is like a cleft
pomegranate Bleeding crimson seeds
And dripping them on the ground.

My heart gapes because
it is ripe and over-full, And its
seeds are bursting from it.

But how is
this other than a
torment to me!

I, who am shut
up, with broken crockery,
In a dark closet!

I have been temperate
always, But I am like to be
very drunk With your coming.

There have been times I feared to walk down
the street Lest I should reel with the wine of you, And
jerk against my neighbours As they go by.

I will mix me a drink of stars,-- Large stars
with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon
and crimson, Cool, quiet, green stars.

It will lap and scratch As I swallow
it down; And I shall feel it as a serpent of
fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly.

The rain gullies the garden
paths And tinkles on the broad
sides of grass blades.

A tree, at
the end of my arm,
is hazy with mist.

Even so, I can see
that it has red berries, A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.

It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it, Should be
tinged with colour.

I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch
my hand on the thorns.

Probably,
too, they are
bitter.

Hold your apron wide That I may pour my
gifts into it, So that scarcely shall your two arms
hinder them From falling to the ground.

I would pour them upon you And
cover you, For greatly do I feel this need Of giving
you something, Even these poor things.

Dearest
of my
Heart!

When I go away
from you The world beats dead Like
a slackened drum.

I call out for you against
the jutted stars And shout into
the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge
you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my
eyes So that I can no longer see your face.

Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp
edges of the night?

Hold your soul
open for my
welcoming.

Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me With
its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched
upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

Between us
leapt a gold and
scarlet flame.

Into the hollow
of the cupped, arched blue Of
Heaven it rose.

Its flickering
tongues up-drew And vanished
in the sunshine.

How it came We
guessed not, nor what thing could
be its name.

From each to each had
sprung those sparks which flew Together
into fire.

But we knew The
winds would slap and quench
it in their game.

And so we graved and fashioned
marble blocks To treasure it, and placed
them round about.

With pillared porticos
we wreathed the whole, And roofed
it with bright bronze.

Behind carved
locks Flowered the tall
and sheltered flame.

Without, The baffled
winds thrust at a column's
bole.

Beneath this sod lie
the remains Of one who
died of growing pains.

You ask
me for a
sonnet.

Ah, my Dear, Can
clocks tick back to yesterday
at noon?

Can cracked and fallen leaves
recall last June And leap up on
the boughs, now stiff and sere?

Yes,
'tis
that!

My shadow stretches forward,
and the ground Is dark in front because
the light's behind.

It is grotesque, with such a funny
hat, In watching it and walking I have found More
than enough to occupy my mind.

I cannot
turn, the light would
make me blind.

1 A yellow band of light upon the street
Pours from an open door, and makes a wide Pathway of bright gold
across a sheet Of calm and liquid moonshine.

From inside Come shouts and streams of laughter, and
a snatch Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, The clip of tankards
on a table top, And stir of booted heels.

Against the patch Of candle-light
a shadow falls, its girth Proclaims the host
himself, and master of his shop.

2 This is the tavern
of one Hilverdink, Jan Hilverdink,
whose wines are much esteemed.

Within his cellar men can have to drink The rarest
cordials old monks ever schemed To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art
Improve and spice their virgin juiciness.

Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, Crowning
each pewter tankard with as smart A cap as ever in his wantonness
Winter set glittering on top of an old yew.

3 Tall candles stand upon the
table, where Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked
with wine, Clarets and ports.

Those topaz bumpers
were Drained from slim, long-necked bottles
of the Rhine.

The centre of the board is piled
with pipes, Slender and clean, the still unbaptized
clay Awaits its burning fate.

Behind, the vault Stretches from dim to dark, a
groping way Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes And
bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult.

4 "For good
old Master
Hilverdink, a toast!

" Clamoured
a youth with tassels
on his boots.

"Bring out your oldest brandy
for a boast, From that small barrel in the
very roots Of your deep cellar, man.

Why
here is
Max!

Welcome,
Max, you're scarcely
here in time.

We want to drink to old
Jan's luck, and smoke His best tobacco
for a grand climax.

Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant
as crushed thyme, We'll have the best to wish
you luck, or may we choke!

" 5 Max Breuck unclasped
his broadcloth cloak,
and sat.

"Well thought
of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer
Jan.

" The host set down a jar;
then to a vat Lost in the distance
of his cellar, ran.

Max took a pipe as graceful as the
stem Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew The pungent
smoke deep to his grateful lung.

It curled all blue throughout
the cave and flew Into
the silver night.

At once there flung Into the crowded shop
a boy, who cried to them: 6 "Oh, sirs, is there some learned
lawyer here, Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor?

My master sent me to inquire
where Such men do mostly be, but every door
Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour.

I pray you tell me where I
may now find One versed in law, the
matter will not wait.

" "I am a lawyer,
boy," said Max, "my mind Is not locked to
my business, though 'tis late.

I shall be glad
to serve what way is in
my power.

7 Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out,
Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy Along the dappled cobbles,
while the rout Within the tavern jeered at his employ.

Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, Who peered and splashed
between the twinkling boughs, Flooded the open spaces, and took flight Before
tall, serried houses in platoon, Guarded by shadows.

Past the Custom House
They took their hurried way
in the Spring-scented night.

8 Before a
door which fronted a canal
The boy halted.

A dim
tree-shaded
spot.

The water lapped the stones in
musical And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot Slumbered
at anchor with no light aboard.

The boy
knocked twice, and steps
approached.

A flame Winked through the keyhole, then a
key was turned, And through the open door Max went toward
Another door, whence sound of voices came.

He entered a
large room where
candelabra burned.

9 An aged man
in quilted dressing gown
Rose up to greet him.

"Sir," said Max, "you sent Your
messenger to seek throughout
the town A lawyer.

I have small accomplishment,
But I am at your service, and my
name Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command.

" "Mynheer," replied the
aged man, "obliged Am I,
and count myself much privileged.

I am Cornelius
Kurler, and my fame Is better known
on distant oceans than on land.

10 My ship has tasted
water in strange seas, And bartered goods
at still uncharted isles.

She's oft coquetted with
a tropic breeze, And sheered off
hurricanes with jaunty smiles.

" "Tush, Kurler," here broke in the
other man, "Enough of poetry,
draw the deed and sign.

" The old man seemed to
wizen at the voice, "My good friend, Grootver,--"
he at once began.

"No introductions, let
us have some wine, And business, now that
you at last have made your choice.

" 11 A harsh and
disagreeable man he proved to be, This Grootver,
with no single kindly thought.

Kurler explained,
his old hands nervously
Twisting his beard.

His vessel
he had bought From
Grootver.

12 Little by little
Max made out the way That Grootver
pressed that poor harassed old man.

His money he must have,
too long delay Had turned the usurer
to a ruffian.

13 Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, And
indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam Of
sandalwood, and pungent China teas, Tobacco, coffee!

"  Grootver
only
laughed.

Max heard it all, and
worse than all he heard The deed to
which the sailor gave his word.

He shivered, 'twas as if the villain
gaffed The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, He begged for
life nor knew at all the road he went.

14 For Kurler had
a daughter, young and gay, Carefully reared
and shielded, rarely seen.

But on one black and most unfriendly
day Grootver had caught her as she passed between The
kitchen and the garden.

She had run In fear of him, his evil
leering eye, And when he came she, bolted in her room,
Refused to show, though gave no reason why.

The spinning of her future
had begun, On quiet nights she heard
the whirring of her doom.

15 Max mended an
old goosequill by the fire, Loathing his
work, but seeing no thing to do.

He felt his hands were building
up the pyre To burn two souls, and seized with
vertigo He staggered to his chair.

Before him lay White
paper still unspotted
by a crime.

"Now, young man, write,"
said Grootver in
his ear.

"`If in two years my vessel should yet
stay From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime A
friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.

" 16 And Kurler swore, a palsied,
tottering sound, And traced his name, a
shaking, wandering line.

Then dazed
he sat there, speechless
from his wound.

Grootver got
up:  "Fair voyage,
the brigantine!

" He shuffled
from the room, and left
the house.

His footsteps wore
to silence down
the street.

At last the
aged man began
to rouse.

With help he once
more gained his trembling
feet.

"My daughter,
Mynheer Breuck, is friendless
now.

Will
you watch over
her?

I ask
a solemn
vow.

" 17 Max laid his hand upon the old
man's arm, "Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, So to protect
your daughter from all harm As one man may.

"  Thus sorrowful, forlorn, The situation
to Max Breuck appeared, He gave his promise almost without
thought, Nor looked to see a difficulty.

"Bred Gently to watch a mother left alone; Bound by
a dying father's wish, who feared The world's accustomed harshness when he should
be dead; 18 Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler.

Last Winter she died also, and my
days Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, And undo
habits used to earn her praise.

My leisure I will gladly
give to see Your household and your
daughter prosperous.

" The sailor
said his thanks, but
turned away.

He could not brook that his humility,
So little wonted, and so tremulous, Should first before
a stranger make such great display.

19 "Come here to-morrow as the bells
ring noon, I sail at the full sea, my daughter
then I will make known to you.

'Twill be a boon If after I have
bid good-by, and when Her eyeballs scorch with watching
me depart, You bring her home again.

She lives with one
Old serving-woman, who has
brought her up.

But that
is no friend for so free
a heart.

No head
to match her
questions.

It
is
done.

And I must
sail away to come
and brim her cup.

20 My ship's the fastest
that owns Amsterdam As home, so not
a letter can you send.

I shall be back, before
to where I am Another
ship could reach.

Now your
stipend--" Quickly Breuck
interposed.

"When you once more
Tread on the stones which
pave our streets.

To-morrow I will be,
at stroke of noon,
At the great wharf.

"  Then hurrying, in spite Of cake
and wine the old man pressed upon Him ere he
went, he took his leave and shut the door.

21 'Twas noon in
Amsterdam, the day was clear, And sunshine
tipped the pointed roofs with gold.

The brown canals ran liquid
bronze, for here The sun sank deep into
the waters cold.

And every clock
and belfry in the town Hammered,
and struck, and rang.

Such peals of bells, To shake the sunny morning
into life, And to proclaim the middle, and the
crown, Of this most sparkling daytime!

The crowd swells, Laughing
and pushing toward the quays in
friendly strife.

22 The "Horn
of Fortune" sails away
to-day.

At highest tide
she lets her anchor go, And
starts for China.

Giddy in freshest
paint she curtseys low, And beckons to
her boats to let her start.

Blue is the
ocean, with a flashing
breeze.

The shining
waves are quick to take
her part.

They
push and spatter
her.

Her sails are loose, Her tackles
hanging, waiting men to seize And haul
them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose.

23 At the great wharf's
edge Mynheer Kurler stands, And by his side, his
daughter, young Christine.

Max Breuck is there,
his hat held in his hands, Bowing
before them both.

The brigantine Bounces
impatient at the long delay, Curvets
and jumps, a cable's length from shore.

A heavy galliot unloads on
the walls Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon
balls Stacked on the stones in pyramids.

Once more Kurler has
kissed Christine, and now
he is away.

24 Christine stood rigid like
a frozen stone, Her hands wrung pale in
effort at control.

Max moved aside and
let her be alone, For grief exacts each
penny of its toll.

The dancing
boat tossed on the glinting
sea.

A sun-path swallowed it in flaming
light, Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again
Upon the other side.

Now on the
lee It took the "Horn
of Fortune".

Straining sight Could see
it hauled aboard, men pulling
on the crane.

25 Then up above the eager
brigantine, Along her slender masts, the sails took
flight, Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled.

The shine Of the wet
anchor, when its heavy weight
Rose splashing to the deck.

These things they saw, Christine
and Max, upon the
crowded quay.

They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, The ship had
turned, caught in a windy flaw She glided imperceptibly away,
Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade.

26 Home, through the emptying
streets, Max took Christine, Who would have hid
her sorrow from his gaze.

Before the iron
gateway, clasped between Each garden
wall, he stopped.

She, in amaze, Asked,
"Do you enter not
then, Mynheer Breuck?

My father
told me of your
courtesy.

Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for
me To show such hospitality as maiden may,
Without disdaining rules must not be broke.

Katrina will
have coffee, and she
bakes today.

" 27 She straight
unhasped the tall, beflowered
gate.

Max started at
the beauty, at
the glare Of tints.

At either end was set a wide Path
strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows Of tulips in
their splendour flaunted everywhere!

28 From side to side, midway
each path, there ran A longer one which
cut the space in two.

Then the dame Katrina shook
them down, in pelting showers They plunged to earth,
and died transformed to sugared food.

29 Against the high, encircling
walls were grapes, Nailed close to feel the baking of
the sun From glowing bricks.

Their microscopic
shapes Half hidden by
serrated leaves.

And one Old cherry
tossed its branches
near the door.

Bordered along the wall, in beds between,
Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, The pride of all the garden,
there were more Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen.

They
jostled, mobbed, and
danced.

Max stood
at helpless
stare.

30 "Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll
bring Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best Tobacco, brought from countries
harbouring Dawn's earliest footstep.

"  With girlish zest
To please her guest
she flew.

A moment more
She came again, with her
old nurse behind.

Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, She talked
as someone with a noble store Of hidden fancies, blown upon the
wind, Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past.

31 The little apple
leaves above their heads Let fall a
quivering sunshine.

Quiet,
cool, In blossomed
boughs they sat.

Beyond, the beds Of tulips blazed,
a proper vestibule And antechamber
to the rainbow.

Dyes Of
prismed richness:
 Carmine.

Blues Tinging
dark browns to
purple.

Silvers flushed
To amethyst
and tinct with gold.

Round eyes Of
scarlet, spotting tender
saffron hues.

Violets sunk
to blacks, and reds in
orange crushed.

32 Of every
pattern and in every
shade.

Nacreous,
iridescent,
mottled, checked.

Some purest sulphur-yellow,
others made An ivory-white
with disks of copper flecked.

Sprinkled and
striped, tasselled, or keenest
edged.

Striated, powdered,
freckled, long or
short.

They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths
new-fledged, Born of the spectrum wedded
to a flame.

The shade within the arbour
made a port To o'ertaxed eyes, its
still, green twilight rest became.

33 Her knitting-needles clicked and
Christine talked, This child matured to woman unaware,
The first time left alone.

Now dreams
once balked Found
utterance.

Max thought her
very
fair.

Beneath her cap
her ornaments shone gold, And
purest gold they were.

Kurler
was rich
And heedful.

Her old maiden
aunt had died Whose darling
care she was.

Now, growing
bold, She asked, had Max
a sister?

Dropped a stitch
At her own
candour.

Then she
paused and softly
sighed.

34 Two
years was
long!

She loved her
father well, But fears
she had not.

He had always
been Just sailed or
sailing.

And she must not dwell On
sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen
Her smile at parting.

But
she sighed
once more.

Two years was
long; 'twas not one hour
yet!

Mynheer
Grootver she would not
see at all.

Yes, yes, she knew, but ere
the date so set, The "Horn of Fortune"
would be at the wall.

When Max had
bid farewell, she
watched him from the door.

Such things were Christine's world,
and his was she Winter drew near,
his sun was in her smiles.

Another Spring, and
at his law he toiled, Unspoken hope
counselled a wise efficiency.

36 Max Breuck was honour's soul,
he knew himself The guardian of
this girl; no more, no less.

As one in charge of guineas on a shelf
Loose in a china teapot, may confess His need, but may
not borrow till his friend Comes back to give.

So Max, in honour, said No word
of love or marriage; but the days He
clipped off on his almanac.

The
end Must
come!

The second year, with feet
of lead, Lagged slowly by till Spring
had plumped the willow sprays.

37 Two years had made Christine
a woman grown, With dignity and
gently certain pride.

But all her childhood
fancies had not flown, Her thoughts in lovely
dreamings seemed to glide.

Max was her trusted
friend, did she confess A closer
happiness?

Max
could
not tell.

Two years were over
and his life he found Sphered
and complete.

In restless eagerness
He waited for the "Horn
of Fortune".

Well Had he
his promise kept, abating
not one pound.

38 Spring
slipped away to
Summer.

Still no
glass Sighted the
brigantine.

Then Grootver came
Demanding Jufvrouw
Kurler.

His trespass
Was justified, for he had
won the game.

Christine
begged time, more
time!

Midsummer went,
And Grootver waxed
impatient.

Still
the ship
Tarried.

Christine, betrayed
and weary, sank To
dreadful terrors.

One day,
crazed, she sent
For Max.

"Come quickly," said her
note, "I skip The worst distress
until we meet.

The
world is
blank.

" 39 Through the long
sunshine of late afternoon
Max went to her.

In the pleached alley,
lost In bitter reverie,
he found her soon.

And sitting down beside her,
at the cost Of all his secret, "Dear," said he, "what thing
So suddenly has happened?

"  Then, in tears, She told that Grootver, on the
following morn, Would come to marry her, and shuddering:
"I will die rather, death has lesser fears.

" Max felt the shackles
drop from the oath which
he had sworn.

40 "My Dearest
One, the hid joy
of my heart!

I
love you,
oh!

you must
indeed have
known.

In strictest honour I have
played my part; But all this misery has
overthrown My scruples.

If you love me, marry
me Before the sun has dipped
behind those trees.

You cannot be wed
twice, and Grootver, foiled, Can
eat his anger.

My care it shall be To pay your
father's debt, by such degrees As I can compass,
and for years I've greatly toiled.

41 This is not haste, Christine,
for long I've known My love, and silence
forced upon my lips.

I worship you with
all the strength I've shown
In keeping faith.

"  With pleading
finger tips He
touched her arm.

Dearest, speak,
I love
you.

Do my words
fall too
swift now?

They've been
in leash so long upon
the brink.

" She sat quite
still, her body
loose and weak.

Then into
him she melted,
all her soul at flow.

42 And they were married ere
the westering sun Had disappeared
behind the garden trees.

The evening poured on them its benison, And
flower-scents, that only night-time frees, Rose up around them from the beamy
ground, Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon.

Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, In such
enraptured sweetness as they found Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon To
be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced.

Then, far spent, Our
eyes will close to
undisturbed rest.

For that
desired thing I leave
you now.

To pinnacle this day's accomplishment,
By telling Grootver that a bootless quest Is his, and
that his schemes have met a knock-down blow.

" 44 But Christine clung to
him with sobbing cries, Pleading for love's
sake that he leave her not.

And wound her arms
about his knees and thighs As
he stood over her.

With dread, begot Of Grootver's
name, and silence, and the night,
She shook and trembled.

Words in moaning
plaint Wooed him to
stay.

She feared,
she knew not why, Yet
greatly feared.

She seemed some
anguished saint Martyred
by visions.

Max Breuck soothed her fright
With wisdom, then stepped out under
the cooling sky.

45 But at the gate once
more she held him close And quenched her heart
again upon his lips.

"My Sweetheart,
why this
terror?

I propose
But to be gone one
hour!

Evening slips Away,
this errand must
be done.

First goes my
father, if I lose
you now!

" She grasped him
as in panic lest
she drown.

Softly he laughed,
"One hour through the
town By moonlight!

That's no place
for foul
attacks.

Dearest, be
comforted, and clear
that troubled brow.

46 One hour,
Dear, and then, no more
alone.

We front
another day
as man and wife.

I shall be back almost
before I'm gone, And midnight shall anoint
and crown our life.

" Then
through the gate
he passed.

Along the street
She watched his buttons
gleaming in the moon.

He stopped to
wave and turned the
garden wall.

Straight she sank
down upon a
mossy seat.

Her senses, mist-encircled by
a swoon, Swayed to unconsciousness beneath
its wreathing pall.

47 Briskly
Max walked beside the still
canal.

His step
was firm
with purpose.

Not a jot He feared this meeting,
nor the rancorous gall Grootver would
spit on him who marred his plot.

He dreaded no
man, since he could
protect Christine.

He stopped
and laughed
aloud.

His starved
life had not fitted him
for joy.

It strained him to the
utmost to reject Even
this hour with her.

His
heart beat
loud.

"Damn Grootver,
who can force my
time to this employ!

What boyish
uncontrol To
be so racked.

Then
felt his ticking
watch.

In half an
hour Grootver would
know the whole.

And he would be returned, lifting
the latch Of his own gate, eager to take
Christine And crush her to his lips.

How
bear
delay?

He broke
into
a run.

In front, a
line Of candle-light banded the
cobbled street.

Not for many a day
Had he been there to take his
old, accustomed seat.

"  And out
they came pell-mell, His
old companions.

"Max,
where have you
been?

Not
drink with
us?

Indeed
you serve us
well!

How many
months is it since
we have seen You here?

Jan, Jan, you
slow, old doddering
goat!

Here's Mynheer Breuck come
back again at last, Stir your
old bones to welcome him.

Fill your
throat; Here's beer or
brandy.

Now, boys,
hold him
fast.

Put down
your cane, dear
man.

What really
vicious
whacks!

" 50 They forced him to a seat,
and held him there, Despite his anger, while the
hideous joke Was tossed from hand to hand.

Franz poured with care
A brimming glass
of whiskey.

"Here, we've broke Into
a virgin barrel
for you, drink!

Married,
and out
on business.

Which lie's
the
likeliest?

Come, Max,
do
think.

" Swollen with fury, struggling
with these men, Max cursed hilarity
which must needs have a mark.

51 Forcing himself to steadiness,
he tried To quell the uproar, told them what he dared
Of his own life and circumstance.

Implied Most urgent
matters, time could ill
be spared.

In jesting mood his
comrades heard his tale,
And scoffed at it.

He felt his anger
more Goaded and
bursting;--"Cowards!

Is no one loth To mock
at duty--"  Here they called for ale,
And forced a pipe upon him.

With an oath He
shivered it to fragments on
the earthen floor.

52 Sobered a little by his violence,
And by the host who begged them to be still, Nor injure his good name, "Max,
no offence," They blurted, "you may leave now if you will.

"We've gone
too
far.

I ask your
pardon for our
foolish joke.

It started in
a wager ere
you came.

The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar
I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, Was with me,
and I thought merely to play a game.

53 Its properties are to induce
a sleep Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time Is
inconceivable in swiftness.

Deep Sunken in slumber,
imageries sublime Flatter the senses, or
some fearful dream Holds them enmeshed.

Years pass which on
the clock Are but so
many seconds.

We agreed That the
next man who came should prove the
scheme; And you were he.

And then the
pipe was broke, and you
were freed.

" Max Breuck
was maddened
now.

"Another
jest Of your
befuddled wits.

I know not
why I am
to be your butt.

At my request You'll choose
among you one who'll answer for Your most
unseasonable mirth.

You'll
hear from
me.

" But Franz had caught him at the
very door, "It is no lie, Max Breuck,
and for your plight I am to blame.

Come back, and
we'll talk
quietly.

55 You have no business,
that is why we laughed, Since you had none
a few minutes ago.

As to your wedding, naturally
we chaffed, Knowing the length of time it takes to do
A simple thing like that in this slow world.

Indeed,
Max, 'twas a
dream.

Forgive
me
then.

I'll burn
the drug if
you prefer.

"  But Breuck
Muttered
and stared,--"A lie.

"  And then he hurled,
Distraught, this word
at Franz:  "Prove it.

And when It's
proven, I'll
believe.

That thing
shall be
your work.

56 I'll give you
just one week to make
your case.

On August thirty-first,
eighteen-fourteen, I shall require
your proof.

"  With wondering face
Franz cried, "A week to August,
and fourteen The year!

You're mad,
'tis April
now.

April,
and
eighteen-twelve.

"  Max staggered,
caught A chair,--"April two
years ago!

Indeed,
Or you, or
I, are mad.

I know not
how Either could blunder
so.

"  Hilverdink brought "The
Amsterdam Gazette", and Max
was forced to read.

57 "Eighteen hundred
and twelve," in largest print; And next to it,
"April the twenty-first.

" The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint
Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, He read it, and
into his pounding brain Tumbled a horror.

Like a roaring sea
Foreboding shipwreck, came the message
plain: "This is two years ago!

What
of
Christine?

" He fled the cellar, in
his agony Running to outstrip
Fate, and save his holy shrine.

58 The darkened buildings
echoed to his feet Clap-clapping on the
pavement as he ran.

Across moon-misted
squares clamoured his fleet
And terror-winged steps.

His heart
began To labour
at the speed.

And still no sign,
No flutter of a
leaf against the sky.

And this should be
the garden wall, and round The
corner, the old gate.

No even
line Was
this!

And then a
fearful cry Shattered
the stillness.

Two stiff
houses
filled the ground.

59 Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons
in line, They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones To
right and left of Kurler's garden.

Spine Rigid
next frozen
spine.

No mellow tones Of ancient gilded iron,
undulate, Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, The
twisted iron of the garden gate, Was there.

The houses
touched and left no
space Between.

With glassy
eyes and shaking nerves
Max gazed.

Then mad with
fear, fled still, and
left that place.

60 Stumbling
and panting, on he ran,
and on.

His slobbering
lips could only
cry, "Christine!

Where are
you
gone?

What future
is our
past?

What saturnine, Sardonic
devil's jest has bid us live Two years
together in a puff of smoke?

It was
no dream, I
swear it!

In some star, Or still
imprisoned in Time's egg,
you give Me love.

Dearest Dear, this stroke
Shall never part us, I
will reach to where you are.

" 61 His
burning eyeballs stared into
the dark.

The moon
had long
been set.

And
still he
cried: "Christine!

His youth Had taught
their meaning, now they closed
upon his dream.

62 Softly he knocked against the
casement, wide It flew, and a cracked voice his
business there Demanded.

The door opened,
and inside
Max stepped.

He saw a candle
held in air Above the head
of a gray-bearded Jew.

"Simeon Isaacs,
Mynheer, can I
serve You?

Do
you
keep arms?

I
want a
pistol.

"  Quick the
old man
grew Livid.

"Mynheer,
a
pistol!

Let me swerve
You from your
purpose.

Life brings often false alarms--"
63 "Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose
My purpose deadly.

In good truth
I've been Blest above
others.

You have many
rows Of pistols
it would seem.

Here, this shagreen
Case holds one that I
fancy.

Silvered mounts
Are to
my taste.

'Twill serve my turn though--" 
Hastily he counts The florins
down upon the table.

"Well, Good-night,
and wish me luck for
your to-morrow's toast.

" 64 Into the night again
he hurried, now Pale and in haste; and far beyond
the town He set his goal.

And then he
wondered how
Poor C.

had
come to
die.

"It's grown Handy in
killing, maybe, this I've bought, And
will work punctually.

"  His sorrow fell Upon
his senses, shutting
out all else.

Again he wept, and
called, and blindly fought The heavy
miles away.

My
Own
Wife!

"  He lurched
with failing
pulse.

65 Along the dyke the
keen air blew in gusts, And grasses bent and
wailed before the wind.

The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and
thrusts Long stealthy fingers up some way to find And
crumble down the stones, moaned baffled.

Here The wide-armed
windmills looked
like gallows-trees.

No lights
were burning in the
distant thorps.

Max laid
aside
his coat.

His mind,
half-clear, Babbled
"Christine!

"  A shot split
through the
breeze.

The cold stars winked
and glittered at his
chilling corpse.

Dear Virgin Mary,
far away, Look down from Heaven
while I pray.

Open your golden
casement high, And lean way out
beyond the sky.

I am so little,
it may be A task for you
to harken me.

O Lady Mary, I
have bought A candle, as
the good priest taught.

I only had
one penny, so Old Goody Jenkins
let it go.

It is
a little
bent, you see.

But Oh,
be merciful
to me!

I have not anything
to give, Yet I so long
for him to live.

A year ago he sailed
away And not a word
unto today.

I've strained my eyes
from the sea-wall But never
does he come at all.

Other ships have entered port Their
voyages finished, long or short, And other sailors have
received Their welcomes, while I sat and grieved.

My heart is bursting
for his hail, O Virgin,
let me spy his sail.

_Hull down on the edge of
a sun-soaked sea Sparkle the
bellying sails for me.

Taut to the push of a rousing wind Shaking the
sea till it foams behind, The tightened rigging is shrill with the
song: "We are back again who were gone so long.

"_ One
afternoon I
bumped my head.

I sat on a post and wished I
were dead Like father and mother, for no one
cared Whither I went or how I fared.

A man's voice said, "My
little lad, Here's a bit of a
toy to make you glad.

He held out his hand
and gave to me The most marvellous
top which could ever be.

It had ivory eyes, and jet-black rings, And a
red stone carved into little wings, All joined by a twisted golden
line, And set in the brown wood, even and fine.

It couldn't
mean quite the same to
you.

Every day I
met him there, Where the fisher-nets
dry in the sunny air.

He told me stories
of courts and kings, Of storms at
sea, of lots of things.

The top he said was
a sort of sign That something
in the big world was mine.

_Blue and white
on a sun-shot
ocean.

Against the
horizon a
glint in motion.

Full in the grasp of a shoving wind, Trailing
her bubbles of foam behind, Singing and shouting to port she
races, A flying harp, with her sheets and braces.

_ O Queen of Heaven,
give me heed, I am in
very utmost need.

He loved me, he was all
I had, And when he came it made
the sad Thoughts disappear.

This very
day Send his ship
home to me I pray.

I'll be a priest, if you want it so, I'll
work till I have enough to go And study Latin to say
the prayers On the rosary our old priest wears.

I wished to be a
sailor too, But I will give
myself to you.

I'll never even
spin my top, But put it away
in a box.

I'll stop
Whistling the
sailor-songs he taught.

I'll save my pennies till I have
bought A silver heart in the market square, I've seen
some beautiful, white ones there.

I'll give up all I
want to do And do whatever
you tell me to.

Heavenly Lady, take away
All the games I like to play, Take my life to fill
the score, Only bring him back once more!

_The poplars shiver and
turn their leaves, And the wind through
the belfry moans and grieves.

The gray dust whirls in the market
square, And the silver hearts are covered
with care By thick tarpaulins.

Once again
The bay is black under
heavy rain.

_ The Queen of
Heaven has
shut her door.

A little
boy weeps and
prays no more.

But why
did I kill
him?

In the
small, gilded
room, near the stair?

My ears rack and throb with his cry, And
his eyes goggle under his hair, As my fingers
sink into the fair White skin of his throat.

I
killed
him!

I shook him until his red
tongue Hung flapping out through the black, queer,
Swollen lines of his lips.

And I clung With my
nails drawing blood, while I flung The loose,
heavy body in fear.

Fear lest
he should still not
be dead.

I was drunk
with the lust
of his life.

The blood-drops oozed
slow from his head And dabbled
a chair.

And our strife Lasted
one reeling second, his knife Lay
and winked in the lights overhead.

And the waltz from the
ballroom I heard, When I called
him a low, sneaking cur.

And the wail of the
violins stirred My brute anger
with visions of her.

As I throttled his windpipe,
the purr Of his breath with the
waltz became blurred.

I have ridden ten miles
through the dark, With that music, an infernal
din, Pounding rhythmic inside me.

And my fingers sink in To his
flesh when the violins, thin And straining
with passion, grow stark.

Oh,
the horror of
sound!

While she
danced I was crushing
his throat.

He had tasted the joy
of her, wound Round her body, and I heard
him gloat On the favour.

That
instant
I smote.

How the
dancers swirl
round!

He is here in the room, in my arm,
His limp body hangs on the spin Of the waltz we are dancing,
a swarm Of blood-drops is hemming us in!

And his sin
Is red like his tongue
lolling warm.

And the
drums are
his knell.

He is heavy, his feet
beat the floor As I drag him about
in the swell Of the waltz.

With a menacing
roar, The trumpets crash in
through the door.

clangs his
funeral
bell.

In the chaos of
space Rolls the earth to the
hideous glee Of death!

And so cramped
is this place, I stifle
and pant.

'Tis he
throttles
me!

He has covered
my mouth with
his face!

And his blood
has dripped into
my heart!

And my
heart beats
and labours.

His dead limbs have coiled
every part Of my body
in tentacles.

Through My ears
the waltz
jangles.

Like glue His
dead body holds
me athwart.

I am
drowning in
slime!

And his corpse, like a
clod, Beats me into
a jelly!

The
chime,
One!

And his dead
legs keep
time.

The fountain bent and
straightened itself In the night wind, Blowing
like a flower.

It gleamed and glittered, A
tall white lily, Under the
eye of the golden moon.

From a stone seat, Beneath
a blossoming lime, The
man watched it.

And the spray pattered
On the dim grass
at his feet.

The fountain tossed
its water, Up and up, like
silver marbles.

Is that
an arm he
sees?

And for one moment
Does he catch the moving
curve Of a thigh?

The fountain
gurgled and splashed, And
the man's face was wet.

Is it singing
that he
hears?

A song of
playing
at ball?

The moonlight shines on the straight
column of water, And through it he sees a
woman, Tossing the water-balls.

Her breasts point outwards,
And the nipples are like buds
of peonies.

Her flanks ripple as she plays,
And the water is not more undulating
Than the lines of her body.

Am I not more worth than
your day ladies, Covered with awkward
stuffs, Unreal, unbeautiful?

What do you
fear in taking
me?

Is not
the night
for poets?

I am your
dream, Recurrent as water,
Gemmed with the moon!

" She steps to the edge
of the pool And the water runs,
rustling, down her sides.

She stretches out her arms,
And the fountain streams behind her
Like an opened veil.

In the morning the
gardeners came
to their work.

"There is something
in the fountain," said
one.

They shuddered
as they laid their dead master
On the grass.

"I will close his eyes," said the
head gardener, "It is uncanny to see
a dead man staring at the sun.

" I The inkstand is full of ink, and
the paper lies white and unspotted, in the
round of light thrown by a candle.

Puffs of darkness sweep into
the corners, and keep rolling through
the room behind his chair.

The air is silver and
pearl, for the night is liquid
with moonlight.

See how
the roof glitters,
like ice!

Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into
the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple
because the light is silver-blue, to-night.

She is coming, the
young woman with
the bright hair.

She swings a basket as
she walks, which she places on the sill, between
the geranium stalks.

He laughs, and crumples
his paper as he leans forward
to look.

"The Basket Filled
with Moonlight", what a title
for a book!

The bellying
clouds swing over the
housetops.

He has forgotten
the woman in the room with
the geraniums.

He is beating his
brain, and in his eardrums hammers
his heavy pulse.

She sits on the
window-sill, with the basket
in her lap.

She
cracks a
nut.

The shells ricochet upon
the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce
over the edge and disappear.

"It is very
queer," thinks Peter, "the basket
was empty, I'm sure.

How could
nuts appear from the
atmosphere?

The geraniums
are very gay in their
crimson array.

The bellying clouds swing over the housetops,
and over the roofs goes Peter to pay his morning's
work with a holiday.

"Annette,
it is
I.

" Peter
jumps through the
window.

"Dear, are
you
alone?

" "Look, Peter, the
dome of the tabernacle
is done.

This gold thread is so very high,
I am glad it is morning, a starry
sky would have seen me bankrupt.

Sit down, now tell
me, is your story
going well?

" The golden dome glittered
in the orange of the
setting sun.

On the walls, at intervals,
hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes,
and stoles, and coffin palls.

All stiff with rich embroidery, and
stitched with so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven
gems, or flower-buds new-opened on their stems.

Annette looked at the
geraniums, very red
against the blue sky.

"No matter how I
try, I cannot find any
thread of such a red.

My bleeding
hearts drip stuff muddy
in comparison.

See my
little
pecking dove?

I'm in love
with my own
temple.

Only
that halo's
wrong.

The colour's
too strong, or not strong
enough.

My eyes
are
tired.

Oh, Peter,
don't be so rough; it
is valuable.

I won't
do any
more.

You tyrannise,
Dear, that's
enough.

Now sit down
and amuse me
while I rest.

" The shadows of the geraniums
creep over the floor, and begin to climb
the opposite wall.

Peter watches her, fluid with
fatigue, floating, and drifting, and
undulant in the orange glow.

His senses flow towards
her, where she lies supine
and dreaming.

Seeming
drowned in a golden
halo.

The pungent smell of
the geraniums
is hard to bear.

He pushes against
her knees, and brushes his lips
across her languid hands.

His lips
are hot
and speechless.

He woos her, quivering,
and the room is filled with shadows,
for the sun has set.

But she only understands the
ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and
the shock of one colour on another.

She does not see that
this is the same, and querulously
murmurs his name.

"Peter,
I don't
want it.

" And he, the
undesired, burns
and is consumed.

There is a
crescent moon on the
rim of the sky.

III
"Go home,
now, Peter.

To-night is
full
moon.

I must
be
alone.

" "How soon the
moon is full
again!

Annette,
let me
stay.

Indeed, Dear
Love, I shall not
go away.

My God,
but you keep
me starved!

You write `No Entrance
Here', over all
the doors.

Is it not strange, my Dear, that
loving, yet you deny me
entrance everywhere.

Would marriage strike you blind, or, hating
bonds as you do, why should I be denied the rights
of loving if I leave you free?

You want the whole of
me, you pick my brains to rest you, but
you give me not one heart-beat.

Oh,
forgive me,
Sweet!

I suffer
in my loving,
and you know it.

I cannot feed
my life on being
a poet.

" "As you please, poor
Peter, but it will hurt
me if you do.

It will
crush your heart and squeeze
the love out.

" He answered
gruffly, "I know
what I'm about.

" "Only
remember
one thing from to-night.

My work
is taxing and
I must have sight!

" The clear moon looks
in between the
geraniums.

On the wall, the shadow of the
man is divided from the shadow of
the woman by a silver thread.

They are eyes, hundreds
of eyes, round like
marbles!

Unwinking,
for there are no
lids.

Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and
the irises are cased in the whites, and they
glitter and spark under the moon.

The basket is
heaped with human
eyes.

She cracks off
the whites and throws them
away.

They ricochet upon the
roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce
over the edge and disappear.

But she is here,
quietly sitting on the window-sill,
eating human eyes.

IV How
hot the sheets
are!

His skin is tormented
with pricks, and over him sticks,
and never moves, an eye.

It lights the
sky with blood,
and drips blood.

And the drops sizzle on his bare
skin, and he smells them burning in, and branding
his body with the name "Annette".

The blood-red sky
is outside his
window now.

And his heart
wrenches and
pounds "Annette!

" The lead of the roof is scorching,
he ricochets, gets to the edge, bounces
over and disappears.

The bellying
clouds are red as they swing over
the housetops.

V The air is of
silver and pearl, for the night
is liquid with moonlight.

How the ruin
glistens, like a palace
of ice!

Only two black
holes swallow the brilliance
of the moon.

Deflowered
windows, sockets without
sight.

A man
stands before
the house.

He sees the silver-blue moonlight, and
set in it, over his head, staring and flickering,
eyes of geranium red.

I Over
the yawning chimney
hangs the fog.

Drip--hiss--drip--hiss-- fall the raindrops
on the oaken log which burns, and steams,
and smokes the ceiling beams.

Drip--hiss--the
rain never
stops.

The wide, state bed
shivers beneath its
velvet coverlet.

Above, dim, in
the smoke, a tarnished
coronet gleams dully.

Overhead
hammers and chinks
the rain.

Fearfully wails the wind down
distant corridors, and there comes the swish and
sigh of rushes lifted off the floors.

The arras blows
sidewise out from the wall,
and then falls back again.

It is my lady's
key, confided with much nice
cunning, whisperingly.

He enters on a sob of
wind, which gutters the candles
almost to swaling.

The fire
flutters
and drops.

He shuts
the
door.

The rushes fall
again to stillness along
the floor.

Outside, the
wind goes
wailing.

The velvet coverlet
of the wide bed is
smooth and cold.

Above, in the
firelight, winks the
coronet of tarnished gold.

The knight shivers in
his coat of fur, and holds out his hands
to the withering flame.

She is always
the same, a sweet
coquette.

He
will wait for
her.

How the log
hisses
and drips!

How warm and
satisfying will
be her lips!

Is it guilt to free a lady
from her palsied lord, absent and fighting,
terribly abhorred?

He stirs a
booted heel and kicks
a rolling coal.

His spur
clinks on the
hearth.

Overhead,
the rain hammers
and chinks.

She
is so pure
and whole.

Only because he has her soul will
she resign herself to him, for where the soul has gone,
the body must be given as a sign.

He takes her by
the divine right of
the only lover.

He has sworn
to fight her lord, and wed
her after.

Should he be overborne,
she will die adoring him, forlorn,
shriven by her great love.

Above, the
coronet winks in
the darkness.

Drip--hiss--fall
the
raindrops.

The arras blows
out from the wall, and a door bangs
in a far-off hall.

The
candles
swale.

In the gale
the moat below plunges
and spatters.

Will the lady
lose courage and not
come?

The rain claps
on a loosened
rafter.

Is
that
laughter?

The room
is filled with lisps and
whispers.

One candle
drowns and the other
gutters.

Is that the rain which pads
and patters, is it the wind through the winding
entries which chatters?

The state bed is very
cold and he is
alone.

How far from
the wall the arras
is blown!

It is no
storm which makes these little
chuckling sounds.

By the Great Wounds of Holy
Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing
and clasping someone!

Through the sobbing storm
he hears her love take form and
flutter out in words.

They prick into his ears and stun
his desire, which lies within him,
hard and dead, like frozen fire.

And the
little noise
never stops.

He tears down the arras
from before an inner chamber's
bolted door.

II The state
bed shivers in the
watery dawn.

For
the storm never
stops.

On the velvet coverlet
lie two bodies, stripped and fair in
the cold, grey air.

Drip--hiss--fall the blood-drops, for
the bleeding never
stops.

At each side of
the bed, on the
floor, is a head.

A man's on this side, a woman's
on that, and the red blood oozes
along the rush mat.

A wisp of paper is
twisted carefully into the strands
of the dead man's hair.

It says, "My Lord:  Your
wife's paramour has paid with
his life for the high favour.

" Through the lady's
silver fillet is wound
another paper.

It reads, "Most noble
Lord:  Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-stranded
necklace of beads.

But I have engaged
that, on your return, she
shall welcome you here.

She will not spurn your
love as before, you have still
the best part of her.

Her blood was red, her
body white, they will both be
here for your delight.

The soul inside was a
lump of dirt, I have rid you of that with
a spurt of my sword point.

Good luck
to your
pleasure.

She will be
quite complaisant,
my friend, I wager.

" The end was
a splashed flourish
of ink.

In the passage is heard
the clink of armour, the tread
of a heavy man.

The door bursts open and standing there,
his thin hair wavering in the glare of steely
daylight, is my Lord of Clair.

Over the
yawning chimney
hangs the fog.

Overhead hammers
and chinks the rain which never
stops.

The velvet coverlet
is sodden and wet, yet the
roof beams are tight.

Overhead, the
coronet gleams with its blackened
gold, winking and blinking.

Among the rushes
three corpses are
growing cold.

III In the castle church you may see
them stand, Two sumptuous tombs on either hand Of the choir, my
Lord's and my Lady's, grand In sculptured filigrees.

And where the transepts of the church expand,
A crusader, come from the Holy Land, Lies with
crossed legs and embroidered band.

The page's
name became a brand
For shame.

He was buried in crawling
sand, After having been burnt by
royal command.

The Bell
in the convent tower
swung.

High overhead the
great sun hung, A navel
for the curving sky.

The air
was a blue
clarity.

Swallows
flew, And
a cock crew.

The iron clanging
sank through the light air, Rustled
over with blowing branches.

A flare Of spotted green, and a
snake had gone Into the bed where the snowdrops shone
In green new-started, Their white bells parted.

Two by two, in a long
brown line, The nuns were walking to breathe
the fine Bright April air.

They must go in
soon And work at their tasks all
the afternoon.

But
this time
is theirs!

They walk
in
pairs.

First comes the Abbess, preoccupied
And slow, as a woman often tried, With
her temper in bond.

Then the
oldest
nun.

Then younger and younger,
until the last one Has a laugh on
her lips, And fairly skips.

They wind about the
gravel walks And all the long
line buzzes and talks.

They step in time
to the ringing bell, With scarcely
a shadow.

The sun is well In
the core of a sky
Domed silverly.

Sister Marguerite
said:  "The pears will
soon bud.

" Sister Angelique
said she must get her spud And free the
earth round the jasmine roots.

Sister
Veronique said:
 "Oh, look at those shoots!

There's a
crocus up, With
a purple cup.

" But Sister Clotilde said nothing
at all, She looked up and down the old grey wall To
see if a lizard were basking there.

She looked across the
garden to where A sycamore
Flanked the garden door.

She was restless, although her little feet
danced, And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced Her morning's work
had hung in her mind And would not take form.

She could not find The
beautifulness For
the Virgin's dress.

Should it be
of pink, or
damasked blue?

Or perhaps
lilac with gold
shotted through?

Should it be banded
with yellow and white Roses,
or sparked like a frosty night?

Or a crimson
sheen Over some sort
of green?

But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new In
all the garden, no single hue So lovely or so
marvellous That its use would not seem impious.

So on she
walked, And the others
talked.

Sister Elisabeth edged away From what her
companion had to say, For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, She
weighed every grain and recorded each tittle.

She did plain
stitching And worked
in the kitchen.

"Sister Radegonde
knows the apples won't last, I
told her so this Friday past.

I must speak
to her before
Compline.

" Her words were like
dust motes in slanting
sunshine.

The other
nun sighed, With her pleasure
quite dried.

Suddenly Sister
Berthe cried out: "The snowdrops
are blooming!

"  They
turned
about.

The little white cups bent over the
ground, And in among the light stems wound A crested
snake, With his eyes awake.

His crest was amber
glittered with blue, And opaque
so the sun came shining through.

It seemed a
crown with
fiery points.

When he quivered all down
his scaly joints, From every
slot The sparkles shot.

The nuns huddled
tightly together, fear Catching
their senses.

But Clotilde must peer
More closely at the beautiful snake,
She seemed entranced and eased.

Could she make
Colours so rare,
The dress were there.

The Abbess
shook off her
lethargy.

"Sisters,
we will walk
on," said she.

Sidling away from the
snowdrop bed, The line curved forwards,
the Abbess ahead.

Only Clotilde
Was the last to
yield.

When the recreation
hour was done Each went
in to her task.

Alone In the library, with
its great north light, Clotilde wrought at an exquisite
Wreath of flowers For her Book of Hours.

They framed the
picture she had
made, Half-delighted and half-afraid.

In a courtyard with a lozenged
floor The Virgin watched, and through the arched door The angel
came Like a springing flame.

His wings were dipped in violet
fire, His limbs were strung to
holy desire.

He lowered his head and
passed under the arch, And the air
seemed beating a solemn march.

The Virgin waited
With eyes
dilated.

Her face was quiet
and innocent, And beautiful
with her strange assent.

A silver thread
about her head Her halo
was poised.

But in the stead Of
her gown, there remained The
vellum, unstained.

Clotilde painted the flowers
patiently, Lingering over
each tint and dye.

She could spend great pains,
now she had seen That curious,
unimagined green.

A colour
so strange It had seemed
to change.

She thought it
had altered while
she gazed.

At first it had been simple green; then glazed All
over with twisting flames, each spot A molten colour, trembling
and hot, And every eye Seemed to liquefy.

She had made
a plan, and her
spirits danced.

After all, she had only glanced At that
wonderful snake, and she must know Just what hues made the creature
throw Those splashes and sprays Of prismed rays.

When evening prayers
were sung and said, The nuns lit
their tapers and went to bed.

And soon in the convent there was no
light, For the moon did not rise until late that night,
Only the shine Of the lamp at the shrine.

Clotilde lay
still in her trembling
sheets.

Her heart
shook her body
with its beats.

She could not see till the moon should
rise, So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes
On the window-square Till light should be there.

The faintest shadow
of a branch Fell
on the floor.

Clotilde, grown staunch With solemn
purpose, softly rose And fluttered down between
the rows Of sleeping nuns.

She
almost
runs.

She must go out through the little
side door Lest the nuns who were always praying before
The Virgin's altar should hear her pass.

She pushed the bolts, and
over the grass The red moon's
brim Mounted its rim.

Her shadow crept up the convent wall As
she swiftly left it, over all The garden lay the level glow Of
a moon coming up, very big and slow.

The
gravel
glistened.

She stopped
and
listened.

It was still, and
the moonlight was
getting clearer.

She laughed a little,
but she felt queerer Than ever
before.

The snowdrop bed
Was reached and she bent
down her head.

On the striped
ground The snake
was wound.

For a moment Clotilde
paused in alarm, Then she rolled up
her sleeve and stretched out her arm.

She thought she
heard steps, she must
be quick.

She darted her hand
out, and seized the thick Wriggling
slime, Only just in time.

The old gardener came muttering
down the path, And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath,
And covered Clotilde and the angry snake.

He bit her,
but what difference
did that make!

The Virgin
should dress In his
loveliness.

The gardener was covering
his new-set plants For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts
Your lover of growing things.

He spied Something to do
and turned aside, And the moonlight
streamed On Clotilde, and gleamed.

His business
finished the gardener
rose.

He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows
A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she Grasping him,
laughing, while quietly Her eyes are weeping.

Is
he
sleeping?

He thinks it is some holy vision, Brushes that aside
and with decision Jumps--and hits the snake with his stick, Crushes his spine,
and then with quick, Urgent command Takes her hand.

The gardener sucks the poison
and spits, Cursing and praying as befits A poor
old man half out of his wits.

"Whatever possessed you, Sister,
it's Hatched of a devil And
very evil.

It's one of them
horrid basilisks
You read about.

They say a man risks
His life to touch it, but I guess I've
sucked it Out by now.

Lucky I
chucked it Away
from you.

He is dead now, but his
colours won't fade At once, and by noon I
shall have made The Virgin's robe.

Oh, Francois, see
How kindly the moon shines
down on me!

I can't die
yet, For the
task was set.

" "You won't die now, for I've
sucked it away," Grumbled old
Francois, "so have your play.

If the Virgin is set on
snake's colours so strong,--" "Francois, don't say
things like that, it is wrong.

" So Clotilde
vented
Her creed.

"He can't do
no more harm, Sister,"
said he.

"Paint as
much as
you like.

"  And gingerly
He picked up the snake
with his stick.

Clotilde Thanked him, and begged that
he would shield Her secret, though itching
To talk in the kitchen.

At dawn's first
saffron-spired warning Clotilde
was up.

And all that morning, Except when she went
to the chapel to pray, She painted, and when the April
day Was hot with sun, Clotilde had done.

She drooped, though her heart beat loud At
the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed To the
Virgin her finely-touched thought had made.

A lady,
in excellence arrayed,
And wonder-souled.

From long fasting Clotilde felt weary
and faint, But her eyes were starred like those of a saint Enmeshed
in Heaven's beatitude.

A sudden clamour
hurled its rude Force to break
Her vision awake.

The door nearly leapt
from its hinges, pushed By the
multitude of nuns.

They hushed When they saw Clotilde,
in perfect quiet, Smiling, a little
perplexed at the riot.

And all
the hive Buzzed
"She's alive!

He had found the strain Of
silence too great, and preferred the pain
Of a conscience outraged.

The news had spread,
And all were convinced Clotilde
must be dead.

For Francois, to
spite them, Had not seen
fit to right them.

How could we have
guessed Our convent
so blessed!

To
have
you die!

And I, who am
A hollow, living shell, the
grave Is empty of me.

Holy Mary, I
crave To be taken, Dear Mother, Instead
of this other.

" She dropped on her knees and
silently prayed, With anguished hands and
tears delayed To a painful slowness.

The minutes
drew To
fractions.

Then the west wind
blew The sound of a bell, On
a gusty swell.

It came skipping over the slates of
the roof, And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof To
grief, in the eye of so fair a day.

The Abbess,
comforted, ceased
to pray.

And the sun lit
the flowers In Clotilde's
Book of Hours.

It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress And
made the red spots, in a flushed excess, Pulse and start; and the violet
wings Of the angel were colour which shines and sings.

The book seemed
a choir Of rainbow
fire.

The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun Did
the same, then one by one, They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers
Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs.

Clotilde,
the
Inspired!

She only
felt
tired.

The old chronicles say
she did not die Until
heavy with years.

And that is why There hangs in the convent
church a basket Of osiered silver, a holy casket,
And treasured therein A dried snake-skin.

Panels of claret
and blue which shine Under the
moon like lees of wine.

A coronet done in a golden
scroll, And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll Through
the muddy ruts of a moorland track.

They
daren't
look back!

They are whipping
and cursing the
horses.

What brutes
men are when
they think they're scored.

They are scared
half out of their wits,
poor souls.

For my lord has a casket
full of rolls Of minted sovereigns,
and silver bars.

I laugh to
think how he'll show his scars
In London to-morrow.

He whines with
rage In his varnished
cage.

My lady
has shoved her rings over
her toes.

'Tis an ancient
trick every night-rider
knows.

But I shall relieve her of them yet, When
I see she limps in the minuet I must beg to
celebrate this night, And the green moonlight.

There's nothing to hurry
about, the plain Is hours
long, and the mud's a strain.

My gelding's uncommonly
strong in the loins, In half an
hour I'll bag the coins.

'Tis a clear,
sweet night on the
turn of Spring.

The
chase is
the thing!

How the coach flashes
and wobbles, the moon Dripping
down so quietly on it.

A tune Is beating out
of the curses and screams, And the cracking
all through the painted seams.

Steady, old
horse, we'll keep
it in sight.

'Tis
a rare fine
night!

There's a clump of trees on
the dip of the down, And the sky shimmers
where it hangs over the town.

It seems a shame to break the air
In two with this pistol, but I've my share
Of drudgery like other men.

Hold up,
you beast, now
what the devil!

Confound this
moor for a pockholed, evil,
Rotten marsh.

My
right
leg's snapped.

'Tis a mercy
he's rolled, but I'm nicely
capped.

A broken-legged
man and a
broken-legged horse!

They'll
get me, of
course.

The cursed coach will reach the town And
they'll all come out, every loafer grown A
lion to handcuff a man that's down.

Oh, the
coachman's bulleted
hat!

I'll give
it a head
to fit it pat.

_They handcuffed the body just
for style, And they hung him in chains for the
volatile Wind to scour him flesh from bones.

Way out on the moor you
can hear the groans His gibbet makes
when it blows a gale.

'Tis a
common
tale.

_ Paul Jannes was working very late, For
this watch must be done by eight To-morrow or the
Cardinal Would certainly be vexed.

So they picked his pocket,
And he paid in jewels for his
slobbering kisses.

This watch was made to buy him blisses
From an Austrian countess on her way Home,
and she meant to start next day.

Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame Of a tallow
candle, and became So absorbed, that his old clock made him
wince Striking the hour a moment since.

Its echo, only
half apprehended, Lingered
about the room.

He ended Screwing the little rubies in,
Setting the wheels to lock and spin, Curling the infinitesimal
springs, Fixing the filigree hands.

Chippings Of
precious stones lay
strewn about.

The table before
him was a rout Of splashes
and sparks of coloured light.

There was yellow gold
in sheets, and quite A heap of
emeralds, and steel.

Here was
a gem, there was
a wheel.

And glasses lay like limpid lakes Shining and
still, and there were flakes Of silver, and shavings of pearl, And little
wires all awhirl With the light of the candle.

He took the watch And wound its hands
about to match The time, then glanced up to
take the hour From the hanging clock.

Good,
Merciful
Power!

How came that shadow
on the wall, No woman
was in the room!

His tall Chiffonier
stood gaunt behind
His chair.

His old
cloak, rabbit-lined,
Hung from a peg.

The
door was
closed.

Just for a
moment he must
have dozed.

He looked again,
and saw it
plain.

The silhouette made a blue-black stain On
the opposite wall, and it never wavered Even when the
candle quavered Under his panting breath.

What made That beautiful, dreadful thing, that
shade Of something so lovely, so exquisite, Cast from a substance which
the sight Had not been tutored to perceive?

Paul brushed
his eyes across
his sleeve.

Clear-cut, the Shadow on
the wall Gleamed black, and never
moved at all.

Paul's watches were like amulets, Wrought into
patterns and rosettes; The cases were all set with stones,
And wreathing lines, and shining zones.

He knew the beauty in a curve, And
the Shadow tortured every nerve With its perfect
rhythm of outline Cutting the whitewashed wall.

So fine Was the neck he
knew he could have spanned It about with
the fingers of one hand.

The lady
was edged with the
stamp of race.

A
singular vision
in such a place.

He moved the candle to
the tall Chiffonier; the
Shadow stayed on the wall.

He threw his cloak upon
a chair, And still the lady's
face was there.

From every corner
of the room He saw, in the patch of
light, the gloom That was the lady.

Her violet bloom
Was almost brighter than that
which came From his candle's tulip-flame.

He set the filigree hands; he laid
The watch in the case which he had made; He put on his
rabbit cloak, and snuffed His candle out.

The room seemed
stuffed With
darkness.

Softly he crossed
the floor, And let himself
out through the door.

The sun was flashing
from every pin And wheel,
when Paul let himself in.

The whitewashed
walls were hot
with light.

The room was the core of a
chrysolite, Burning and shimmering
with fiery might.

The sun was so bright that
no shadow could fall From the furniture
upon the wall.

Paul sighed as he looked at
the empty space Where a glare
usurped the lady's place.

He settled himself to his work, but his mind Wandered,
and he would wake to find His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, And
nothing advanced beyond the rim Of his dreaming.

The Cardinal sent to
pay For his watch, which had purchased
so fine a day.

But Paul could hardly
touch the gold, It seemed the price
of his Shadow, sold.

With the first twilight he struck a
match And watched the little blue stars hatch Into
an egg of perfect flame.

He lit his candle,
and almost in shame At his
eagerness, lifted his eyes.

The Shadow was there,
and its precise Outline etched
the cold, white wall.

The young
man swore, "By
God!

You, Paul, There's
something the matter
with your brain.

Go home now
and sleep off
the strain.

" The next day was
a storm, the rain Whispered
and scratched at the window-pane.

A grey and
shadowless morning filled
The little shop.

The watches,
chilled, Were dead and sparkless
as burnt-out coals.

The gems lay on the table
like shoals Of stranded shells, their colours faded, Mere heaps
of stone, dull and degraded.

Paul's head was heavy,
his hands obeyed No orders,
for his fancy strayed.

His work became a
simple round Of watches repaired
and watches wound.

The slanting ribbons of the
rain Broke themselves on the window-pane, But Paul
saw the silver lines in vain.

In the morning
he selected all His
perfect jacinths.

When, at dusk, the
Shadow grew Upon the
wall, Paul's work was through.

Holding the watch, he spoke to
her: "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir
Into one brief sign of being.

Turn your eyes this way, and seeing This watch, made from
those sweet curves Where your hair from your forehead swerves, Accept the gift
which I have wrought With your fairness in my thought.

Grant me this, and
I shall be Honoured
overwhelmingly.

" The Shadow rested
black and still, And the wind sighed
over the window-sill.

Topazes ran in a foamy
stream Over the cover, the hands were studded With
garnets, and seemed red roses, budded.

The face was of crystal, and engraved
Upon it the figures flashed and waved With zircons,
and beryls, and amethysts.

It took a week to make,
and his trysts At night with the
Shadow were his alone.

Paul swore
not to speak till his
task was done.

The night that
the jewel was
worthy to give.

Paul watched the long hours of daylight live To the
faintest streak; then lit his light, And sharp against the wall's pure white
The outline of the Shadow started Into form.

His burning-hearted Words
so long imprisoned swelled To
tumbling speech.

Like one compelled, He told the lady all
his love, And holding out the watch above His head, he
knelt, imploring some Littlest sign.

The
Shadow
was dumb.

Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered
haste, And everything he made he
placed Before his lady.

The Shadow
kept Its perfect
passiveness.

He wooed her with the work
of his hands, He waited for those dear
commands She never gave.

No word, no motion,
Eased the ache of his
devotion.

His days passed in a
strain of toil, His nights burnt up
in a seething coil.

Seasons shot by,
uncognisant
He worked.

The Shadow
came to haunt Even
his days.

Sometimes quite plain He
saw on the wall the blackberry stain Of
his lady's picture.

No sun was bright
Enough to dazzle that
from his sight.

Then he
would curse Himself
and her!

And more, the beauty
he could not make, And give her,
for her comfort's sake!

He would beat his weary, empty hands Upon
the table, would hold up strands Of silver and gold, and ask her
why She scorned the best which he could buy.

He would pray as to
some high-niched saint, That she would cure him of
the taint Of failure.

He would clutch the wall With his bleeding
fingers, if she should fall He could catch, and
hold her, and make her live!

With sobs he would
ask her to forgive All
he had done.

And broken, spent, He would call himself
impertinent; Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing;
driven To madness by the sight of Heaven.

There were days when he wooed as a lover,
sighed In tenderness, spoke to his bride, Urged her to
patience, said his skill Should break the spell.

A man's sworn will
Could compass life, even
that, he knew.

He
would prove
it true!

The edge of
the Shadow never
blurred.

The lips of the
Shadow never
stirred.

He would climb on chairs
to reach her lips, And pat her
hair with his finger-tips.

Then, deadly sick, He would lie in a swoon
for hours, while thick Phantasmagoria crowded his
brain, And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain.

The crisis passed, he would wake and smile With a vacant
joy, half-imbecile And quite confused, not being certain Why he was suffering; a curtain
Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled His sorrow.

Like a little child He would play with his watches
and gems, with glee Calling the Shadow to look and see How the spots
on the ceiling danced prettily When he flashed his stones.

"Mother, the green Has
slid so cunningly in between
The blue and the yellow.

Oh,
please look
down!

One morning he threw the street door
wide On coming in, and his vigorous stride Made the
tools on his table rattle and jump.

In his hands he carried a
new-burst clump Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked
stalks Were pliant with sap.

As a husband talks To
the wife he left an hour ago,
Paul spoke to the Shadow.

"Dear, you know To-day the calendar calls
it Spring, And I woke this morning gathering
Asphodels, in my dreams, for you.

So I rushed out to see what flowers blew Their pink-and-purple-scented
souls Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, And made the approach to the Market
Square A garden with smells and sunny air.

I feel so well and
happy to-day, I think I shall
take a Holiday.

And to-night
we will have a
little treat.

I am going
to bring you something
to eat!

" He looked at
the Shadow
anxiously.

It was
quite grave and
silent.

He Shut the outer
door and came And leant
against the window-frame.

"Dearest," he said, "we
live apart Although I
bear you in my heart.

We look
out each from a different
world.

At any moment
we may be hurled
Asunder.

They follow their
orbits, we Obey their laws
entirely.

Now you must come, or I go there,
Unless we are willing to live the flare Of
a lighted instant and have it gone.

" A bee in
the laurels began
to drone.

A loosened
petal fluttered
prone.

"Man grows by eating, if you eat
You will be filled with our life, sweet
Will be our planet in your mouth.

If not, I must parch in death's wide
drouth Until I gain to where you are, And give you myself
in whatever star May happen.

Is it
not ordered
cleverly?

" The Shadow, bloomed
like a plum, and clear,
Hung in the sunlight.

It
did
not hear.

Paul slipped away
as the dusk began To
dim the little shop.

He ran To the nearest
inn, and chose with care As much
as his thin purse could bear.

Returning, he brushed his
tools aside, And laid across the table
a wide Napkin.

He put a glass and
plate On either side,
in duplicate.

Over the lady's,
excellent With loveliness,
the laurels bent.

In the centre the
white-flaked pastry stood, And beside
it the wine flask.

Red as blood Was the wine
which should bring the lustihood Of human
life to his lady's veins.

He put meat on her
plate and filled her glass, And waited
what should come to pass.

The Shadow
lay quietly on
the wall.

From the street outside
came a watchman's call "A
cloudy night.

Rain
beginning
to fall.

" And still
he
waited.

The clock's
slow tick Knocked on the
silence.

He filled his own glass
full of wine; From his pocket
he took a paper.

The twine Was knotted,
and he searched a knife From
his jumbled tools.

The cord of
life Snapped as he cut
the little string.

He knew
that he must do the
thing He feared.

He shook powder into the wine,
And holding it up so the candle's shine Sparked a
ruby through its heart, He drank it.

"Dear, never
apart
Again!

You have said
it was mine
to do.

It is done, and
I am come
to you!

" Paul Jannes let
the empty wine-glass fall,
And held out his arms.

The insentient wall Stared
down at him with its cold,
white glare Unstained!

The Shadow
was not
there!

Paul clutched
and tore at his tightening
throat.

He felt the veins in his body bloat,
And the hot blood run like fire and stones Along
the sides of his cracking bones.

But he laughed as he staggered
towards the door, And he laughed aloud
as he sank on the floor.

The Coroner took the
body away, And the watches were
sold that Saturday.

The Auctioneer said
one could seldom buy Such watches,
and the prices were high.

Holy Mother
of God, Merciful
Mary.

I am
very
weary.

I have come from a village
miles away, all day I have been coming,
and I ache for such far roaming.

I cannot walk as
light as I used, and my
thoughts grow confused.

I am
heavier
than I was.

Mary
Mother, you
know the cause!

Beautiful Holy
Lady, take my shame
away from me!

Let this fear be only
seeming, let it be that I
am dreaming.

For months I have
hoped it was so, now I am
afraid I know.

Lady, why should this
be shame, just because I
haven't got his name.

He loved me, yes,
Lady, he did, and he couldn't
keep it hid.

We
meant to
marry.

Why did
he
die?

That day when they told me he had gone
down in the avalanche, and could not be found until
the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing.

I
could
not cry.

Why
should
he die?

Why should he
die and his
child live?

His little child
alive in me, for
my comfort.

No, Good
God, for my
misery!

I cannot face the shame, to be
a mother, and not married, and the poor child to
be reviled for having no father.

Merciful Mother,
Holy Virgin, take away
this sin I did.

Let the
baby
not be.

Only take
the stigma
off of me!

I have told
no one but you, Holy
Mary.

My mother would call me "whore", and spit
upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent.

I am no whore, no
bad woman, he loved me, and
we were to be married.

I carried him always in
my heart, what did it matter if I
gave him the least part of me too?

You were a virgin, Holy
Mother, but you had a son, you know there
are times when a woman must give all.

There is some
call to give and
hold back nothing.

I swear I obeyed
God then, and this child who lives
in me is the sign.

He is dead,
my beautiful,
strong man!

I shall never
feel him caress
me again.

This is
the only baby
I shall have.

Oh, Holy
Virgin, protect
my baby!

My little,
helpless
baby!

He will look like his father,
and he will be as fast a runner
and as good a shot.

Not that he
shall be no scholar
neither.

How can I
think such things, I
am not good.

My father will have nothing
to do with my boy, I shall be
an outcast thing.

Oh, Mother of our
Lord God, be merciful, take
away my shame!

Let my body
be as it was before
he came.

No little baby for
me to keep underneath my
heart for those long months.

To live
for and to get comfort
from.

I cannot
go home and tell my
mother.

She is
so hard and
righteous.

She never loved my
father, and we were born for
duty, not for love.

I
cannot
face it.

Holy Mother,
take my baby
away!

Take away
my little
baby!

I don't
want it, I
can't bear it!

And I
shall have nothing,
nothing!

Just be
known as a
good girl.

Have other men want to
marry me, whom I could not touch,
after having known my man.

He is gone, my man, I shall
never hear him or feel him again,
but I could not touch another.

I would rather
lie under the snow with my
own man in my arms!

So I shall
live on
and on.

Just a
good
woman.

With nothing to warm my
heart where he lay, and where he left his
baby for me to care for.

I shall not
be quite human,
I think.

Merely
a stone-dead
creature.

They will
respect
me.

What do
I care
for respect!

You didn't care for
people's tongues when you were
carrying our Lord Jesus.

God had my man give me
my baby, when He knew that He was going
to take him away.

His lips will comfort
me, his hands will
soothe me.

All day I will work at my lace-making, and
all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed
Angels to cover him with their wings.

Dear Mother,
what is it that
sings?

I hear voices
singing, and lovely silver
trumpets through it all.

They seem just
on the other
side of the wall.

Let me
keep my baby, Holy
Mother.

He is only a poor lace-maker's
baby, with a stain upon him, but give me strength
to bring him up to be a man.

Tang of fruitage in the air; Red
boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded
grass; Hooded gentians all a'mass.

Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing
off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to
fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.

Beech trees in a golden
haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing
through the silver birches.

How that
pine tree shouts
and lurches!

From the sunny
door-jamb high, Swings the shell
of a butterfly.

Scrape of insect
violins Through the stubble
shrilly dins.

Every blade's a minaret Where
a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us
to pray At the miracle of day.

Then the purple-lidded night Westering
comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant
boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.

In the brown water, Thick and silver-sheened
in the sunshine, Liquid and cool in the
shade of the reeds, A pike dozed.

Lost among the
shadows of stems He
lay unnoticed.

Suddenly he flicked his
tail, And a green-and-copper brightness Ran
under the water.

Out from under the reeds
Came the olive-green light, And orange
flashed up Through the sun-thickened water.

So the fish passed across the pool, Green and copper,
A darkness and a gleam, And the blurred reflections of the willows
on the opposite bank Received it.

Where is
she, the woman
who wore it?

The scent of
her lingers
and drugs me!

A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush
the scarf down on my face, And gulp in the warmth and the
blueness, and my eyes swim in cool-tinted heavens.

Around me are
columns of marble, and
a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.

Rose-leaves blow
and patter against
it.

Below the
stone steps a lute
tinkles.

A jar of green
jade throws its shadow
half over the floor.

A big-bellied Frog hops through the sunlight
and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, Sunk
in the black and white marble.

The west wind has lifted a scarf On
the seat close beside me, the blue of it is
a violent outrage of colour.

She draws it more closely
about her, and it ripples beneath
her slight stirring.

How loud clocks can tick
when a room is empty,
and one is alone!

My daffodil-crowned,
Slim and without
sandals!

As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness
So my eyeballs are startled with you, Supple-limbed youth among
the fruit-trees, Light runner through tasselled orchards.

You are an almond flower
unsheathed Leaping and flickering between
the budded branches.

As I would free the white almond
from the green husk So would I strip your
trappings off, Beloved.

And fingering the smooth and
polished kernel I should see that in my hands
glittered a gem beyond counting.

The neighbour sits
in his window and
plays the flute.

From my bed I can hear him, And the round
notes flutter and tap about the room, And hit against each
other, Blurring to unexpected chords.

It is very beautiful,
With the little flute-notes all about me,
In the darkness.

In the daytime, The neighbour
eats bread and onions with one hand And
copies music with the other.

He is fat and has a bald
head, So I do not look at him, But
run quickly past his window.

There is always
the sky to look at, Or the
water in the well!

But when night comes and he plays his flute, I
think of him as a young man, With gold seals hanging from his
watch, And a blue coat with silver buttons.

You are beautiful and faded Like
an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord; Or
like the sun-flooded silks Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.

In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses
of out-lived minutes, And the perfume of your soul Is vague and
suffusing, With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.

Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colours.

My vigour is
a new-minted penny, Which
I cast at your feet.

Gather it up
from the dust, That its sparkle
may amuse you.

Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone,
Where trickle and plash the fountains, Marble fountains,
yellowed with much water.

Splashing down moss-tarnished steps
It falls, the water; And the air
is throbbing with it.

With its
gurgling
and running.

With its
leaping, and
deep, cool murmur.

And I
wished for night
and you.

I wanted to see
you in the swimming-pool, White and shining in
the silver-flecked water.

While the moon rode over the garden,
High in the arch of night, And the scent of the
lilacs was heavy with stillness.

Night, and the
water, and you in your
whiteness, bathing!

Guarded within the old red wall's
embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company,
The tulips stand arrayed.

Here infantry
Wheels out into
the sunlight.

What bold grace Sets
off their tunics, white with
crimson lace!

Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry,
With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye Of purple
batteries, every gun in place.

Forward they come, with flaunting
colours spread, With torches burning, stepping out
in time To some quick, unheard march.

Our ears
are dead, We cannot
catch the tune.

In pantomime
Parades that
army.

With our utmost
powers We hear the wind stream
through a bed of flowers.

As a monk
who prays" changed to:
"There are none, ever.

As a monk who prays"
A Tale of Starvation: "And
he neither eat nor drank.

" changed to: "And
he neither
ate nor drank.

" The Great Adventure of
Max Breuck: Stanza headings were originally
Roman Numerals.

And
terror-wingéd
steps.

Before the Altar, bowed, he stands With
empty hands; Upon it perfumed offerings burn
Wreathing with smoke the sacrificial urn.

His sole
condition Love
and poverty.

"Shining and distant
Goddess, hear my prayer Where
you swim in the high air!

With charity look down on me,
Under this tree, Tending the gifts I have not brought,
The rare and goodly things I have not sought.

Instead,
take from me all
my life!

"Upon the wings Of
shimmering moonbeams I pack
my poet's dreams For you.

My wearying strife,
My courage, my loss, Into the
night I toss For you.

Golden Divinity, Deign to look down on me Who
so unworthily Offers to you: All life has known, Seeds withered unsown,
Hopes turning quick to fears, Laughter which dies in tears.

The shredded remnant of a
man Is all the span And compass
of my offering to you.

"Empty and silent,
I Kneel before your pure, calm
majesty.

On this stone, in this urn I pour my heart
and watch it burn, Myself the sacrifice; but
be Still unmoved:  Divinity.

" From the altar, bathed
in moonlight, The smoke rose straight
in the quiet night.

Wild little bird, who chose
thee for a sign To put upon
the cover of this book?

Who heard thee singing in the distance dim, The vague,
far greenness of the enshrouding wood, When the damp freshness of the morning
earth Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?

We do not
know what bird
thou art.

Perhaps That fairy bird, fabled in island tale,
Who never sings but once, and then his song Is of such fearful beauty
that he dies From sheer exuberance of melody.

For this they took thee, little bird,
for this They captured thee, tilting among the leaves,
And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.

For it contains a
song surpassing thine, Richer,
more sweet, more poignant.

Glinting golden
through the trees, Apples of
Hesperides!

Through the moon-pierced warp of night Shoot pale shafts
of yellow light, Swaying to the kissing breeze Swings the
treasure, golden-gleaming, Apples of Hesperides!

Far and lofty yet
they glimmer, Apples
of Hesperides!

Blinded by their radiant shimmer, Pushing forward
just for these; Dew-besprinkled, bramble-marred, Poor duped mortal, travel-scarred, Always thinking soon to
seize And possess the golden-glistening Apples of Hesperides!

Orbed, and glittering,
and pendent, Apples of
Hesperides!

Not one missing, still
transcendent, Clustering like
a swarm of bees.

Yielding to no man's desire, Glowing
with a saffron fire, Splendid, unassailed, the
golden Apples of Hesperides!

April had covered the hills With flickering
yellows and reds, The sparkle and coolness of snow
Was blown from the mountain beds.

Across a deep-sunken stream The pink of
blossoming trees, And from windless appleblooms
The humming of many bees.

The air was of rose and gold Arabesqued
with the song of birds Who, swinging unseen under leaves,
Made music more eager than words.

Of a sudden, aslant the road, A
brightness to dazzle and stun, A glint of the bluest
blue, A flash from a sapphire sun.

Blue-birds so blue, 't was a dream, An
impossible, unconceived hue, The high sky of summer
dropped down Some rapturous ocean to woo.

Such a colour,
such infinite
light!

The heart of a
fabulous gem, Many-faceted,
brilliant and rare.

Centre Stone
of the earth's
diadem!

Centre Stone of the
Crown of the World, "Sincerity"
graved on your youth!

And your eyes hold the
blue-bird flash, The sapphire
shaft, which is truth.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal
the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past
our view, We only watch their glad, early start.

Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter
the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope,
Their distant employ, We never shall know.

And the stream as it flows Sweeps
them away, Each one is gone Ever
beyond into infinite ways.

We alone stay While years
hurry on, The flower fared forth, though
its fragrance still stays.

So through the vacancy of busy
life At intervals you cross my path and bring The
deep solemnity of passing years.

For you I have shed bitter tears,
for you I have relinquished that for which my
heart Cried out in selfish longing.

And to-night Having
just left you, I can say:
 "'T is well.

Thank God that I have known
a soul so true, So nobly just,
so worthy to be loved!

" Stupefy my heart to every day's monotony,
Seal up my eyes, I would not look so far, Chasten my steps to peaceful
regularity, Bow down my head lest I behold a star.

Fill my days with work, a thousand calm necessities Leaving
no moment to consecrate to hope, Girdle my thoughts within the dull circumferences
Of facts which form the actual in one short hour's scope.

Give me dreamless sleep, and loose night's power over me, Shut
my ears to sounds only tumultuous then, Bid Fancy slumber, and steal away
its potency, Or Nature wakes and strives to live again.

Let each day pass, well ordered in its usefulness,
Unlit by sunshine, unscarred by storm; Dower me with strength and curb all foolish
eagerness -- The law exacts obedience.

High up above the open,
welcoming door It hangs, a piece
of wood with colours dim.

Once, long ago, it was a waving
tree And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves Of
forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.

Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among Its
branches, breaking here and there a limb; But every now and then broad
sunlit days Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.

An artist once, with patient,
careful knife, Had fashioned it like to
the untamed sea.

Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown
back By the gay, sunny wind, which whips the blue And
breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.

Among the flashing waves are
two white birds Which swoop, and soar, and scream
for very joy At the wild sport.

Now diving quickly
in, Questing some glistening
fish.

Now flying up, Their dripping feathers shining
in the sun, While the wet drops like little glints of light, Fall
pattering backward to the parent sea.

Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows, Or
skimming some white crest about to break, The spirits of the sky deigning
to stoop And play with ocean in a summer mood.

When you, my Dear, are away,
away, How wearily goes
the creeping day.

A year drags after morning,
and night Starts another year
of candle light.

O Pausing
Sun and Lingering
Moon!

Grant me, I
beg of you,
this boon.

Whirl round the earth as never
sun Has his diurnal
journey run.

And, Moon, slip past the ladders of air In a
single flash, while your streaming hair Catches the stars and pulls them down
To shine on some slumbering Chinese town.

O
Kindly
Sun!

Bring evening
to crowd the footsteps
of noon.

But when that long
awaited day Hangs ripe in the
heavens, your voyaging stay.

Be
morning,
O Sun!

with the lark in
song, Be afternoon
for ages long.

And, Moon, let you and
your lesser lights Watch over
a century of nights.

Here terrace sinks to terrace, arbors close The ends of
dreaming paths; a wanton wind Jostles the half-ripe pears, and then, unkind, Tumbles a-slumber
in a pillar rose, With content Grown indolent.

By night my garden
is o'erhung with gems Fixed
in an onyx setting.

Fireflies
Flicker their lanterns in
my dazzled eyes.

In serried rows I
guess the straight, stiff stems Of hollyhocks
Against the rocks.

Who shall
declare the joy
of the running!

Who shall tell
of the pleasures
of flight!

Springing and spurning the
tufts of wild heather, Sweeping, wide-winged, through
the blue dome of light.

Everything mortal has
moments immortal, Swift and God-gifted,
immeasurably bright.

Joy in the
touch of the wind and
the sunlight!

With the vigorous
earth I am
one.

To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending,
then upspringing As the breezes run; Holding up A scent-brimmed cup, Full
of summer's fragrance to the summer sun.

To be a butterfly Still,
upon a flower, Winking with its painted
wings, Happy in the hour.

Blossoms hold Mines of
gold Deep within the farthest heart
of each chaliced flower.

To be a cloud Blowing through the blue, Shadowing
the mountains, Rushing loudly through Valleys deep Where torrents keep Always
their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.

To be a wave Splintering
on the sand, Drawing back, but leaving
Lingeringly the land.

Rainbow light Flashes
bright Telling tales of coral caves
half hid in yellow sand.

Soon they die, the flowers; Insects
live a day; Clouds dissolve in showers; Only
waves at play Last forever.

Shall endeavor Make
a sea of purpose mightier
than we dream to-day?

He whistled a little frivolous tune Which he felt
to be pulsing with ecstasy, For he thought that success always followed
desire, Such a very superlative fool was he.

A maiden came by on an ambling
mule, Her gown was rose-red and her kerchief blue, On her lap
she carried a basket of eggs.

Thought the fool,
"There is certainly
room for two.

" So he jauntily swaggered
towards the maid And put out
his hand to the bridle-rein.

"My pretty girl," quoth the
fool, "take me up, For to ride with you
to the town I am fain.

" But the maiden struck at his
upraised arm And pelted him hotly
with eggs, a score.

The mule, lashed into
a fury, ran; The fool went back
to his stone and swore.

Then out of the cloud of settling
dust The burly form of an abbot appeared, Reading
his office he rode to the town.

And the
fool got up, for
his heart was cheered.

He stood in the midst
of the long, white road And swept off his
cap till it touched the ground.

"Ah, Reverent Sir, well
met," said the fool, "A worthier transport
never was found.

"I pray you allow me to
mount with you, Your palfrey seems
both sturdy and young.

" The abbot looked up
from the holy book And cried out in
anger, "Hold your tongue!

"How dare you obstruct the King's
highroad, You saucy varlet,
get out of my way.

" Then he gave the fool a
cut with his whip And leaving him smarting,
he rode away.

The fool was angry,
the fool was sore, And he cursed
the folly of monks and maids.

"If I could but meet with a
man," sighed the fool, "For a woman fears,
and a friar upbraids.

" Then he saw a flashing of distant steel And the
clanking of harness greeted his ears, And up the road journeyed
knights-at-arms, With waving plumes and glittering spears.

The fool took notice
and slowly arose, Not quite
so sure was his foolish heart.

If priests and women
would none of him Was it likely
a knight would take his part?

They sang as they rode, these lusty boys, When
one chanced to turn toward the highway's side, "There's a sorry
figure of fun," jested he, "Well, Sirrah!

move back, there
is scarce room
to ride.

" Then the
company halted
and laughed out loud.

"Was such a
request ever
made to a knight?

" "And where are your legs," asked
one, "if you start, You may be inside
the town gates to-night.

" "'T is a lazy fellow, let
him alone, They've no room in the town
for such idlers as he.

" But one bent from his saddle
and said, "My man, Art thou not ashamed
to beg charity!

"Thou art well set up, and thy legs are strong, But
it much misgives me lest thou'rt a fool; For beggars get only a beggar's
crust, Wise men are reared in a different school.

Purple tree-shadows crept over the road, The level
sun flung an orange light, And the fool laid his head on the hard, gray
stone And wept as he realized advancing night.

A great, round moon rose over a hill And the
steady wind blew yet more cool; And crouched on a stone a wayfarer sobbed,
For at last he knew he was only a fool.

The stars hang thick in the apple
tree, The south wind smells of the pungent sea, Gold
tulip cups are heavy with dew.

The night's
for you, Sweetheart,
for you!

Starfire
rains from the vaulted
blue.

The dancing
of unseen
leaves.

A drowsy
swallow stirs in the
eaves.

Only a
maiden is
sorrowing.

'T is night
and spring, Sweetheart,
and spring!

Starfire
lights your heart's
blossoming.

In the intimate dark there's never
an ear, Though the tulips stand on tiptoe to hear, So
give; ripe fruit must shrivel or fall.

As you
are mine, Sweetheart,
give all!

Starfire
sparkles, your
coronal.

What
is
poetry?

Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously
are wrought Into a pattern?

Softly the water ripples Against
the canoe's curving side, Softly the birch trees rustle
Flinging over us branches wide.

From the shore come the scents of a garden,
And between a gap in the trees A proud white statue
glimmers In cold, disdainful ease.

The child of a southern people, The thought
of an alien race, What does she in this pale, northern
garden, How reconcile it with her grace?

But the moon in her wayward beauty Is
ever and always the same, As lovely as when upon
Latmos She watched till Endymion came.

Through the water the moon writes her legends
In light, on the smooth, wet sand; They endure for a moment,
and vanish, And no one may understand.

All round us the secret of Nature Is telling
itself to our sight, We may guess at her meaning but
never Can know the full mystery of night.

But her power of enchantment is on us,
We bow to the spell which she weaves, Made up of the murmur
of waves And the manifold whisper of leaves.

To me
it is
not so.

To me alone it is a time of pause, A
void and silent space between two worlds, When inspiration lags, and feeling
sleeps, Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.

For life alone is creator of life, And closest
contact with the human world Is like a lantern shining in the
night To light me to a knowledge of myself.

As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty,
Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below him Gleams in the
wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging.

So for a moment I stand, my feet
planted firm in the present, Eagerly scanning the
future which is so soon to possess me.

" Later the solitude vanished,
confused and distracted the road Where many
were seeking and jostling.

Left behind were the trees and the flowers,
The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred
unconscious communing.

And now he is come to a river, a
line of gray, sullen water, Not blue and splashing, but dark,
rolling somberly on to the ocean.

But on the far side
is a city whose windows flame
gold in the sunset.

be strong to uphold him, and bear him
across to the city, The beautiful city
whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!

Look, Dear,
how bright the moonlight
is to-night!

See where it casts the
shadow of that tree Far out
upon the grass.

It seems as though the garden which you love Were like
a swinging censer, its incense Floating before us as a
reverent act To sanctify and bless our night of love.

I need to hear it often
for my heart Doubts naturally,
and finds it hard to trust.

Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so, And yet
I would not have it goodness, rather Excess of selfishness in
you to need Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.

Has your life too been
waiting for this time, Not only
mine the sharpness of this joy?

Dear Heart, I love you,
worship you as though I were a priest
before a holy shrine.

I'm glad that you are beautiful, although Were
you not lovely still I needs must love; But you are all things, it
must have been so For otherwise it were not you.

Come, close; When you are in the circle
of my arm Faith grows a mountain and I take my
stand Upon its utmost top.

Yes, yes, once more Kiss me, and
let me feel you very near Wanting me wholly,
even as I want you.

Have
years behind
been dark?

Will those to come
Bring unguessed sorrows into
our two lives?

What does
it matter, we
have had to-night!

To-night will make us
strong, for we believe Each in the other,
this is a sacrament.

I know a country laced with roads, They join the
hills and they span the brooks, They weave like a shuttle between broad
fields, And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.

They are canopied like
a Persian dome And carpeted
with orient dyes.

They are myriad-voiced,
and musical, And scented with
happiest memories.

O Winding roads that
I know so well, Every twist and
turn, every hollow and hill!

They are set in my
heart to a pulsing tune Gay as a
honey-bee humming in June.

O Uphill
roads and roads
that dip down!

You curl your sun-spattered length along, And your march
is beaten into a song By the softly ringing hoofs of a
horse And the panting breath of the dogs I love.

The pageant of Autumn
follows its course And the blue sky of
Autumn laughs above.

And the song and the country become as one, I see
it as music, I hear it as light; Prismatic and shimmering, trembling
to tone, The land of desire, my soul's delight.

And always it beats in my listening
ears With the gentle thud of a horse's stride, With the swift-falling steps
of many dogs, Following, following at my side.

O Roads
that journey to
fairyland!

How
still it
is!

What sound is
that which echoes
through the wood?

Is it the
reedy note of an
oaten pipe?

Perchance a minute more will see the brood
Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip Will
rest the rushes he is wont to play.

His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit And weave a
dance with ropes of gray acorns, So light their touch the grasses scarcely
sway As they the measure tread to the lilting flute.

't is only
Fancy thus
adorns.

A cloud drifts
idly over the
shining sun.

How damp
it seems, how silent, still,
and strange!

Surely 't was here some
tragedy was done, And here the
chorus sang each coming change?

The tread of
sandalled feet comes
noiselessly.

The silence almost is a sound, and dreams Take on
the semblances of finite things; So potent is the spell that what but
seems Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings.

The little woodland theatre seems to wait, All
tremulous with hope and wistful joy, For something that is sure to
come at last, Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.

It grows a living presence,
bold and shy, Cradling the future
in a glorious past.

The octagon tower casts a shade Cool and
gray like a cutlass blade; In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,
The little green lizards run out and in.

A sail dips over
the ocean's rim, And bubbles
rise to the fountain's brim.

Slowly she walks to the balustrade, Idly
notes how the blossoms fade In the sun's caress; then crosses where
The shadow shelters a carven chair.

Within its curve, supine
she lies, And wearily closes
her tired eyes.

The minstrel beseeches his silver strings, And holding the lady
spellbound, sings: -- Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across
the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring.

Clouds sail over the distant trees, Petals
are shaken down by the breeze, They fall on the terrace tiles
like snow; The sighing of waves sounds, far below.

A humming-bird kisses
the lips of a rose Then laden with honey
and love he goes.

Step by step, and
he comes to her, Fearful lest
she suddenly stir.

Sunshine and silence, and each to each, The
lute and his singing their only speech; He leans above her, her eyes
unclose, The humming-bird enters another rose.

The minstrel
hushes his silver
strings.

The beating
of humming-birds'
wings!

Down the road to Avignon, The long, long
road to Avignon, Across the bridge to
Avignon, One morning in the spring.

I hear the sigh The goaded
city gives, not day Nor night can ease her
heart, her anguished labours stay.

Below, straight streets, monotonous, From north and south,
from east and west, Stretch glittering; and luminous Above, one tower
tops the rest And holds aloft man's constant quest: Time!

Joyless emblem of the greed Of millions, robber
of the best Which earth can give, the vulgar creed Has seared upon
the night its flaming ruthless screed.

Whose soothing presence
brings The quiet shining
of the stars.

Whose cloak of darkness clings So
intimately close that scars Are
hid from our own eyes.

Beggars By day, our wealth is having night
To burn our souls before altars Dim and tree-shadowed, where the
light Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.

Where art
thou hiding,
where thy peace?

This is the
hour, but
thou art not.

Will waking
tumult never
cease?

Hast thou
thy votary
forgot?

Nature forsakes this man-begot And festering wilderness,
and now The long still hours are here, no jot Of dear communing do
I know; Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

On winter nights beside the
nursery fire We read the fairy
tale, while glowing coals Builded its pictures.

The foliage seemed
to rustle in the wind, A silent
murmur, carved in still, gray stone.

A sudden blare of trumpets, and
the throng About the entrance parted as the guests Filed
singly in with rare and precious gifts.

Our eager fancies
noted all they brought, The glorious,
unattainable delights!

But always there was one
unbidden guest Who cursed the child
and left it bitterness.

The fire falls asunder, all is
changed, I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.

The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name Which honors all who bear it, and
the power Of making words obedient.

This is much; But overshadowing
all is still the curse, That never shall I
be fulfilled by love!

Along the parching
highroad of the world No other
soul shall bear mine company.

So I behold my visions on
the ground No longer radiant, an ignoble
heap Of broken, dusty glass.

And so, unlit, Even by
hope or faith, my dragging steps Force me
forever through the passing days.

You came to me bearing bright roses, Red
like the wine of your heart; You twisted them into a garland
To set me aside from the mart.

Red roses to crown
me your lover, And I walked
aureoled and apart.

Enslaved and encircled,
I bore it, Proud token of
my gift to you.

The petals waned paler,
and shriveled, And dropped; and the
thorns started through.

Bitter thorns to proclaim
me your lover, A diadem
woven with rue.

Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme Had force
to rise from apathy, And shaking off its
lethargy Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime.

But in my soul's high belfry, chill The bitter
wind of doubt has blown, The summer swallows all have
flown, The bells are frost-bound, mute and still.

Upon the crumbling boards the snow
Has drifted deep, the clappers hang Prismed with icicles,
their clang Unheard since ages long ago.

The rope I pull is stiff and cold, My
straining ears detect no sound Except a sigh, as round and
round The wind rocks through the timbers old.

Below, I know the church is bright With
haloed tapers, warm with prayer; But here I only
feel the air Of icy centuries of night.

Beneath my feet the snow is lit And
gemmed with colours, red, and blue, Topaz, and green, where light
falls through The saints that in the windows sit.

Here darkness seems a spectred thing, Voiceless
and haunting, while the stars Mock with a light of long
dead years The ache of present suffering.

Silent and winter-killed I stand, No carol
hymns my debt to you; But take this frozen thought in lieu,
And thaw its music in your hand.

Thou father of the children of my brain By thee
engendered in my willing heart, How can I thank thee for this gift of
art Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain.

What thou created never more can die, Thy
fructifying power lives in me And I conceive, knowing it
is by thee, Dear other parent of my poetry!

All unknown, By me unguessed, by thee
not even dreamed, A tree has blossomed in a night
that seemed Of stubborn, barren wood.

For thou hast sown This
seed of beauty in
a ground of truth.

Humbly I dedicate myself, and
yet I tremble with a sudden fear to set New
music ringing through my fading youth.

His eyelids burnt and quivered with the
strain Of looking, and against his temples beat The all
enshrouding, suffocating dark.

He stumbled, lurched, and struck against a door That opened,
and a howl of obscene mirth Grated his senses, wallowing on the
floor Lay men, and dogs and women in the dirt.

He sickened, loathing
it, and as he gazed The candle guttered,
flared, and then went out.

Then as he leaned Unconscious where,
the great oak door blew back And cast him,
bruised and dripping, in the church.

His eyes from long sojourning in
the night Were blinded now as by some glorious sun;
He slowly crawled toward the altar steps.

He could not think, for heavy in his
ears An organ boomed majestic harmonies; He
only knew that what he saw was light!

He bowed himself before
a cross of flame And shut his eyes
in fear lest it should fade.

Blue through the window
burns the twilight; Heavy, through trees,
blows the warm south wind.

Glistening, against
the chill, gray sky light, Wet, black
branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy,
the scarce-green grass plot Dents into
pools where a foot has been.

Puddles lie spilt in
the road a mass, not Of water,
but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire
on the hearth, its embers
Scattering wide at a stronger gust.

Above, the old weathercock
groans, but remembers Creaking, to turn, in
its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow, Wrapping the
mists round her withering form, Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.

Deeps of unhewn woods Alone
can cherish thee, alone possess Thy quiet,
teeming vigor.

This our crime: Not to have worshipped, marred
by alien moods That sole condition of all loveliness,
The dreaming lapse of slow, unmeasured time.

Dawn fills the room, and penetrating,
bright, The silent sunbeams through the
window pour.

And she lies sleeping, ignorant
of Fate, Enmeshed in listless dreams, her soul not yet Ripened
to bear the purport of this day.

The morning breeze scarce stirs
the coverlet, A shadow falls
across the sunlight; wait!

A lark
is singing as
he flies away.

Beyond the ilex
shadow glares the sun, Scorching against
the blue flame of the sky.

Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine Within
a granite basin, under one The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp;
and I Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.

Another
year Is quick with
import.

Such
each year has
been.

Unmoved thou watchest all, and all bequeath
Some jewel to thy diadem of power, Thou pledge
of greater majesty unseen.

A little garden on a
bleak hillside Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain
snow Lies far into the spring.

The sun's pale glow Is scarcely
able to melt patches wide About
the single rose bush.

All denied
Of nature's tender
ministries.

But no, -- For wonder-working
faith has made it blow With flowers
many hued and starry-eyed.

A little
garden, loved with a
great love!

Thou yellow
trumpeter of
laggard Spring!

Thou herald of
rich Summer's
myriad flowers!

Always bold To stand erect,
full in the dazzling play Of April's
sun, for thou hast caught his gold.

'T is you that
are the music,
not your song.

The song is but a door which, opening
wide, Lets forth the pent-up melody inside, Your spirit's
harmony, which clear and strong Sings but of you.

Throughout your whole life long Your songs, your thoughts, your
doings, each divide This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.

The song of earth has many different
chords; Ocean has many moods and many
tones Yet always ocean.

In the damp Spring woods The painted
trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones Autumn
alone can ripen.

So is this One
music with a thousand
cadences.

So still it stands Surely
our own if we exert
our might.

Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam, Its glowing
flame would die if it were caught, Its value is that it doth always
seem But just a little farther on.

Distraught, But lighted ever
onward, we are brought Upon our way
unknowing, in a dream.

Brave idolatry
Which can conceive
a hero!

No deceit, No knowledge taught
by unrelenting years, Can quench this fierce,
untamable desire.

We know that what we
long for once achieved Will cease
to satisfy.

Be still our fears; If what
we worship fail us, still the fire
Burns on, and it is much to have believed.

Must all of worth be travailled
for, and those Life's brightest stars rise from
a troubled sea?

Must years go by in sad uncertainty
Leaving us doubting whose the conquering
blows, Are we or Fate the victors?

Time which shows All inner
meanings will reveal, but we Shall
never know the upshot.

Sudden we lack The flash
of insight, life grows drear and gray, And hour
follows hour, nerveless, slack.

Austere arbiter of each man's fate, By
whom he learns that Nature's steadfast laws Are as decrees immutable;
O pause Your even forward march!

Not yet too late Teach me the needed
lesson, when to wait Inactive as a ship when no
wind draws To stretch the loosened cordage.

What instinct forces
man to journey on, Urged by a longing
blind but dominant!

Nothing he sees can
hold him, nothing daunt His never
failing eagerness.

The sun Setting in splendour every night
has won His vassalage; those towers flamboyant Of airy
cloudland palaces now haunt His daylight wanderings.

The wind is singing through the
trees to-night, A deep-voiced song of rushing
cadences And crashing intervals.

Above the tossing trees shines down
a star, Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous
joy Quickens nor dims its splendour.

And
my mind, O
Star!

is filled with your white light, from far,
So suffer me this one night to enjoy The freedom
of the onward sweeping wind.

The path runs straight between the flowering rows, A
moonlit path, hemmed in by beds of bloom, Where phlox and marigolds dispute
for room With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose.

'T is reckless prodigality
which throws Into the night these wafts of rich perfume
Which sweep across the garden like a plume.

Over
the trees a single
bright star glows.

How is it that, being gone,
you fill my days, And all the long
nights are made glad by thee?

No loneliness is this, nor misery, But great content
that these should be the ways Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as she strays,
Makes bright and present what she would would be.

And who shall say if
the reality Is not
with dreams so pregnant.

" It may
be vain
illusion.

Alas, how few There are who strike in
us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom
heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.

The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born
castles shattered to the ground, Yet still our human longing vainly
clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.

O stay
your hand, and leave
my heart its songs!

What torture lurks within a single thought When
grown too constant, and however kind, However welcome
still, the weary mind Aches with its presence.

Dull remembrance taught Remembers on unceasingly; unsought
The old delight is with us but to find That all recurring joy is
pain refined, Become a habit, and we struggle, caught.

You lie upon my heart as on a nest, Folded
in peace, for you can never know How crushed I am with
having you at rest Heavy upon my life.

I love you so
You bind my freedom from
its rightful quest.

In mercy
lift your drooping wings
and go.

I do not care to talk to you although Your
speech evokes a thousand sympathies, And all my being's silent
harmonies Wake trembling into music.

When you go It is as if some
sudden, dreadful blow Had severed all
the strings with savage ease.

No, do not talk; but let
us rather seize This intimate
gift of silence which we know.

Others may guess your thoughts
from what you say, As storms are guessed
from clouds where darkness broods.

To me the very essence of the day Reveals
its inner purpose and its moods; As poplars feel the rain and then straightway
Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods.

Now you
are
come!

You tremble like a
star Poised where, behind earth's
rim, the sun has set.

Your voice has sung across
my heart, but numb And mute, I have
no tones to answer.

Far Within I kneel before
you, speechless yet, And life ablaze with
beauty, I am dumb.

How empty
seems the town now
you are gone!

A wilderness of sad streets, where gaunt walls Hide nothing
to desire; sunshine falls Eery, distorted, as it long
had shone On white, dead faces tombed in halls of stone.

The whir of motors, stricken through with
calls Of playing boys, floats up at intervals; But all
these noises blur to one long moan.

What quest
is worth
pursuing?

And how strange
That other men still go
accustomed ways!

I hate their interest
in the things they
do.

A spectre-horde
repeating without change
An old routine.

Alone I know
the days Are still-born, and the
world stopped, lacking you.

All night I wrestled with
a memory Which knocked insurgent
at the gates of thought.

The crumbled wreck of years behind has wrought Its
disillusion; now I only cry For peace, for power to
forget the lie Which hope too long has whispered.

So I sought The sleep which
would not come, and night was fraught With old
emotions weeping silently.

I heard your voice again,
and knew the things Which you had promised
proved an empty vaunt.

I felt your clinging
hands while night's broad wings Cherished
our love in darkness.

From the lawn A
sudden, quivering
birdnote, like a taunt.

My arms
held nothing but
the empty dawn.

To make a pavement for your feet
I stripped My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.

But now my letters
are like blossoms pale We strew upon
a grave with hopeless tears.

I ask no recompense, I shall not fail Although
you do not heed; the long, sad years Still pass, and still I scatter flowers
frail, And whisper words of love which no one hears.

Throughout the echoing chambers of my
brain I hear your words in mournful cadence toll Like some slow
passing-bell which warns the soul Of sundering darkness.

Unrelenting, fain To batter down resistance, fall
again Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole, The bitter blows of truth,
until the whole Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.

Where shall
I look for
comfort?

Our worlds are drawn
apart, our spirit's suns Divided,
and the light of mine burnt dim.

Now in the haunted
twilight I must
do Your will.

I grasp the cup which
over-runs, And with my trembling
lips I touch the rim.

"'I can't
get out', said the
starling.

" Sterne's
'Sentimental
Journey'.

Forever the impenetrable wall Of self confines
my poor rebellious soul, I never see the towering white clouds roll Before
a sturdy wind, save through the small Barred window of my jail.

I live a thrall With all my outer life
a clipped, square hole, Rectangular; a fraction of a scroll
Unwound and winding like a worsted ball.

My thoughts are grown uneager and
depressed Through being always mine, my fancy's wings Are
moulted and the feathers blown away.

I weary for desires never
guessed, For alien passions, strange imaginings, To
be some other person for a day.

White, glittering sunlight
fills the market square, Spotted
and sprigged with shadows.

The market glows,
And flaunts, and clatters in
its busy care.

The law of duty urged that he
should roam, Should sail from fog and chilly airs to
skies Clear with deceitful welcome.

He had come With proud resolve,
but still his lonely eyes Ached with fatigue
at never seeing home.

Smoulderings Of sacrificial
fires burst their rings And blotted out
in smoke his lost domain.

Bereft of courtiers,
only with his queen, From empty
palace down to empty quay.

No challenge
screamed from hostile
carabine.

Boyish,
sympathetic
man!

Crumbled before
thy majesty
we bow.

The little gallery winds round about
The middle of a most secluded room, Midway between
the ceiling and the floor.

For books are more than books, they are the life, The very
heart and core of ages past, The reason why men lived, and worked, and
died, The essence and quintessence of their lives.

Silently waiting that from time to time It may be
given them to illuminate Dull daily facts with pristine radiance For
some long-waited-for affinity Who lingers yet in the deep womb of time.

The shifting sun pierces the young green leaves Of
elm trees, newly coming into bud, And splashes on the floor and on
the books Through old, high, rounded windows, dim with age.

The noisy city-sounds of modern
life Float softened to us across
the old graveyard.

The room is filled with a warm, mellow
light, No garish colours jar on our content,
The books upon the shelves are old and worn.

'T was no belated effort nor attempt To
keep abreast with old as well as new That placed them here, tricked in a
modern guise, Easily got, and held in light esteem.

A nothing truly, yet a link that binds All
ages to their own inheritance, And stretching backward, dim and
dimmer still, Is lost in a remote antiquity.

Grapes do not come of thorns nor figs of
thistles, And even a great poet's divinest thought
Is coloured by the world he knows and sees.

Nay, the little things Of daily
life it is which mold, and shape, And make him apt
for noble deeds and true.

The long, still, fruitful hours slip away Shedding
their influences as they pass; We know ourselves the richer
to have sat Upon this dusty floor and dreamed our dreams.

No other place to us
were quite the same, No other dreams so potent
in their charm, For this is ours!

The building simply bodies
forth a thought Peculiarly
inherent to the race.

And we, descendants of that elder
time, Have learnt to love the very form in which The thought
has been embodied to our years.

It takes some time for moss and vines
to grow And warmly cover gaunt and chill stone walls
Of stately buildings from the cold North Wind.

The lichen of affection takes as long, Or
longer, ere it lovingly enfolds A place which since without it were
bereft, All stript and bare, shorn of its chiefest grace.

Sea Shell, Sea
Shell, Sing me a
song, O Please!

Sea Shell, Sea
Shell, Sing of the things
you know so well.

Near where I live there is a
lake As blue as blue can be, winds make
It dance as they go blowing by.

I think
it curtseys to
the sky.

It's just a lake of lovely flowers And
my Mamma says they are ours; But they are not like
those we grow To be our very own, you know.

We have a splendid garden, there Are lots
of flowers everywhere; Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks
And hollyhocks, and evening stocks.

Mamma lets us
pick them, but never Must we
pick any gentians -- ever!

For if we carried
them away They'd die of
homesickness that day.

My Grandpapa lives in a wonderful house
With a great many windows and doors, There are stairs that go up, and
stairs that go down, And such beautiful, slippery floors.

But of all of the rooms, even mother's and mine,
And the bookroom, and parlour and all, I like the green dining-room so
much the best Because of its ceiling and wall.

Right over your head is a funny round hole With
apples and pears falling through; There's a big bunch of grapes all purply
and sweet, And melons and pineapples too.

They tumble and tumble, but never come down Though I've
stood underneath a long while With my mouth open wide, for I always
have hoped Just a cherry would drop from the pile.

No matter how early I run there to look It
has always begun to fall through; And one night when at bedtime I
crept in to see, It was falling by candle-light too.

I am sure they are magical fruits, and each
one Makes you hear things, or see things, or go Forever invisible;
but it's no use, And of course I shall just never know.

For the ladder's too heavy
to lift, and the chairs Are not nearly
so tall as I need.

I've given up hope, and
I feel I shall die Without having
accomplished the deed.

It's a little bit sad, when you seem very near
To adventures and things of that sort, Which nearly begin, and then
don't; and you know It is only because you are short.

Slipping softly through the
sky Little horned, happy moon, Can you
hear me up so high?

Will you
come down
soon?

On my nursery
window-sill Will you stay
your steady flight?

And then float away
with me Through the
summer night?

Brushing over tops of trees, Playing
hide and seek with stars, Peeping up through shiny
clouds At Jupiter or Mars.

I shall fill my lap with roses
Gathered in the milky way, All to
carry home to mother.

what will
she
say!

Little rocking,
sailing moon, Do you hear
me shout -- Ahoy!

Just a little
nearer, moon, To please
a little boy.

High up in the apple
tree climbing I go, With the sky
above me, the earth below.

Each branch is the step of
a wonderful stair Which leads to the
town I see shining up there.

Climbing, climbing, higher and higher, The branches
blow and I see a spire, The gleam of a turret, the glint of a
dome, All sparkling and bright, like white sea foam.

On and on, from bough to bough, The leaves are thick,
but I push my way through; Before, I have always had to stop,
But to-day I am sure I shall reach the top.

Today to the end of
the marvelous stair, Where those glittering
pinacles flash in the air!

Climbing, climbing, higher
I go, With the sky close above
me, the earth far below.

Naughty little
speckled trout, Can't I
coax you to come out?

Is it such great fun
to play In the water
every day?

Do you pull the
Naiads' hair Hiding
in the lilies there?

Do you hunt for
fishes' eggs, Or watch
tadpoles grow their legs?

Do the little trouts have school In some
deep sun-glinted pool, And in recess play at tag
Round that bed of purple flag?

I have tried so hard to catch you,
Hours and hours I've sat to watch you; But you never
will come out, Naughty little speckled trout!

He shouts in the sails of the ships at sea, He
steals the down from the honeybee, He makes the forest trees rustle
and sing, He twirls my kite till it breaks its string.

Laughing, dancing, sunny wind, Whistling,
howling, rainy wind, North, South, East and West, Each is
the wind I like the best.

He calls up the fog and hides the hills, He whirls
the wings of the great windmills, The weathercocks love him and turn to
discover His whereabouts -- but he's gone, the rover!

The pine trees toss him their cones with glee, The
flowers bend low in courtesy, Each wave flings up a shower
of pearls, The flag in front of the school unfurls.

By day you cannot
see the sky For it is
up so very high.

You look and look,
but it's so blue That you
can never see right through.

But when night comes it
is quite plain, And all the
stars are there again.

They seem just like old
friends to me, I've known them
all my life you see.

There is the dipper first, and there Is
Cassiopeia in her chair, Orion's belt, the
Milky Way, And lots I know but cannot say.

One group looks like a swarm of bees, Papa
says they're the Pleiades; But I think they must be the
toy Of some nice little angel boy.

Perhaps his jackstones which to-day He has
forgot to put away, And left them lying on the
sky Where he will find them bye and bye.

I wish he'd
come and play
with me.

We'd have such fun, for it would
be A most unusual thing for boys
To feel that they had stars for toys!

“We grasp our battle-spears:
we don our
breast-plates of hide.

The axles of
our chariots touch: our
short swords meet.

Standards obscure the
sun: the foe roll
up like clouds.

Arrows fall thick:
the warriors
press forward.

They menace
our ranks: they break
our line.

The left-hand trace-horse
is dead: the one on
the right is smitten.

The fallen horses
block our wheels: they impede
the yoke-horses!

” They grasp their jade
drum-sticks: they beat the
sounding drums.

Heaven decrees their
fall: the dread Powers
are angry.

The warriors
are all dead: they lie
on the moor-field.

They issued but shall
not enter: they went but
shall not return.

The plains are
flat and wide: the
way home is long.

Their swords lie beside
them: their black bows, in
their hand.

Though their limbs were
torn, their hearts could not
be repressed.

They were more than
brave: they were inspired with
the spirit of “Wu.

” Steadfast to the
end, they could not
be daunted.

Their bodies were stricken, but their
souls have taken Immortality-- Captains among
the ghosts, heroes among the dead.

To be an orphan,
To be fated to
be an orphan.

How
bitter is this
lot!

When my father and mother
were alive I used to ride in a carriage
With four fine horses.

But when they both died,
My brother and sister-in-law Sent me out
to be a merchant.

In the south I travelled
to the “Nine Rivers” And in the east as
far as Ch’i and Lu.

My brother
told me to get
ready the dinner.

My sister-in-law
told me to see after
the horses.

I was always going up
into the hall And running down
again to the parlour.

My
tears fell
like rain.

In the morning they
sent me to draw water, I
didn’t get back till night-fall.

My hands
were all sore And
I had no shoes.

I walked the cold
earth Treading on thorns
and brambles.

As I stopped to
pull out the thorns, How
bitter my heart was!

My tears fell and
fell And I went on
sobbing and sobbing.

In winter I
have no great-coat; Nor in
summer, thin clothes.

It is
no pleasure to be
alive.

I had rather quickly
leave the earth And go beneath
the Yellow Springs.

The April winds blow
And the grass is
growing green.

In the third month--silkworms
and mulberries, In
the sixth month--the melon-harvest.

I went out with the melon-cart
And just as I was coming home The
melon-cart turned over.

The people who came to help me were few, But
the people who ate the melons were many, All they left me
was the stalks-- To take home as fast as I could.

My brother and sister-in-law
were harsh, They asked me all sorts
of awful questions.

Why does
everyone in the
village hate me?

I want to write a letter and send it To my mother
and father under the earth, And tell them I can’t go on any
longer Living with my brother and sister-in-law.

She had been ill for years
and years; She sent for me
to say something.

She couldn’t say what she
wanted Because of the tears that
kept coming of themselves.

“I have burdened you with
orphan children, With orphan
children two or three.

Don’t let our children
go hungry or cold; If they do
wrong, don’t slap or beat them.

When you take
out the baby, rock
it in your arms.

” Last she said, “When I carried them in
my arms they had no clothes And now their
jackets have no linings.

_ I shut the doors and
barred the windows And left the
motherless children.

When I got
to the market and met
my friends, I wept.

I sat down
and could not go
with them.

I asked them
to buy some cakes for
my children.

In the presence
of my friends I
sobbed and cried.

I tried not
to grieve, but sorrow
would not cease.

I felt in
my pocket and gave my
friends some money.

When I got home I found
my children Calling to be taken
into their mother’s arms.

I walked up and down
in the empty room This way
and that a long while.

Then I went away from
it and said to myself “I will forget
and never speak of her again.

” In the eastern
quarter dawn breaks, the stars
flicker pale.

The morning cock
at Ju-nan mounts the
wall and crows.

The songs are over,
the clock run down, but still
the feast is set.

The moon grows dim
and the stars are few; morning
has come to the world.

At a thousand gates and ten thousand
doors the fish-shaped keys turn; Round the Palace and up by the
Castle, the crows and magpies are flying.

We go to the
Golden Palace: We
set out the jade cups.

We summon the
honoured guests To enter
at the Golden Gate.

They enter at the
Golden Gate And go to
the Golden Hall.

In the Eastern Kitchen the
meat is sliced and ready-- Roast beef
and boiled pork and mutton.

The Master
of the Feast hands round
the wine.

The harp-players
sound their clear
chords.

The cups are pushed aside and
we face each other at chess: The rival
pawns are marshalled rank against rank.

The fire glows and the
smoke puffs and curls; From the incense-burner rises
a delicate fragrance.

The clear wine has made
our cheeks red; Round the table
joy and peace prevail.

May those who shared in this
day’s delight Through countless autumns enjoy
like felicity.

At fifteen I
went with the army, At
fourscore I came home.

On the way I met a man
from the village, I asked him
who there was at home.

“That over there is your
house, All covered over with
trees and bushes.

” Rabbits had run in
at the dog-hole, Pheasants flew down from
the beams of the roof.

In the courtyard was growing
some wild grain; And by the well,
some wild mallows.

I’ll boil the grain and
make porridge, I’ll pluck the
mallows and make soup.

Soup and porridge
are both cooked, But there is no
one to eat them with.

I went out and looked
towards the east, While tears fell
and wetted my clothes.

In a narrow road where there
was not room to pass My carriage met
the carriage of a young man.

And while his axle was touching
my axle In the narrow road I
asked him where he lived.

“The place where I live is easy
enough to find, Easy to find and
difficult to forget.

In the midst of the courtyard grows
a cassia-tree,-- And candles on its branches
flaring away in the night.

” They fought south
of the Castle, They died
north of the wall.

They died
in the moors and were
not buried.

Their flesh
was the
food of crows.

“Tell the crows we are not
afraid; We have died in the moors
and cannot be buried.

Crows, how can our
bodies escape
you?

” The waters flowed deep
And the rushes in
the pool were dark.

The riders fought
and were slain: Their horses
wander neighing.

By the
bridge there was
a house.

Was it
south, was it
north?

The harvest
was never
gathered.

How can
we give you your
offerings?

You served your
Prince faithfully,
Though all in vain.

I think of you, faithful
soldiers; Your service shall not
be forgotten.

For in the morning you
went out to battle And at
night you did not return.

I went out at
the eastern gate: I never
thought to return.

But I came back to
the gate with my heart
full of sorrow.

There was not a peck of
rice in the bin: There was not a coat
hanging on the pegs.

So I took
my sword and went
towards the gate.

My wife and child clutched at my coat
and wept: “Some people want to be rich and grand: I only
want to share my porridge with you.

Above, we have the blue waves
of the sky: Below, the yellow
face of this little child.

” “Dear wife,
I cannot
stay.

Soon
it will be
too late.

When one is growing
old One cannot put
things off.

” She went up the mountain to pluck
wild herbs; She came down the mountain and
met her former husband.

She knelt down and asked
her former husband “What do you
find your new wife like?

” “My new wife, although her
talk is clever, Cannot charm me
as my old wife could.

In beauty of
face there is not
much to choose.

But in usefulness
they are not at
all alike.

My new wife comes in from
the road to meet me; My old wife always
came down from her tower.

My new wife is clever
at embroidering silk; My old
wife was good at plain sewing.

Of silk embroidery one
can do an inch a day; Of plain
sewing, more than five feet.

Putting her silks by the side
of your sewing, I see that the new
will not compare with the old.

” My love is
living To the
south of the Great Sea.

What shall
I send
to greet him?

Two pearls and a comb
of tortoise-shell: I’ll send them to him packed
in a box of jade.

They tell me he is not true: They tell me
he dashed my box to the ground, Dashed it to the ground and burnt
it And scattered its ashes to the wind.

From this day to the ends
of time I must never think of him,
Never again think of him.

The cocks are crowing, And
the dogs are barking-- My brother
and his wife will soon know.

The autumn wind is
blowing; The morning
wind is sighing.

In a moment the
sun will rise in the east And
then _it_ too will know.

I am a prisoner
in the hands of the enemy, Enduring
the shame of captivity.

My bones stick out and
my strength is gone Through not getting
enough to eat.

My brother is a
Mandarin And his horses
are fed on maize.

Why can’t he spare a
little money To send
and ransom me?

If you were riding in a coach
And I were wearing a “li,” And one day we met
in the road, You would get down and bow.

If you were carrying a “tēng” And I
were riding on a horse, And one day we met in
the road I would get down for you.

I want to be your
friend For ever and ever without
break or decay.

How swiftly it dries, The
dew on the garlic-leaf, The dew that dries
so fast To-morrow will fall again.

But he whom we
carry to the grave Will never
more return.

What man’s
land is the
graveyard?

It is the crowded
home of ghosts,-- Wise and foolish
shoulder to shoulder.

The King of the
Dead claims them all; Man’s fate
knows no tarrying.

On and on, always
on and on Away from you,
parted by a life-parting.

Going from one another
ten thousand “li,” Each in a different
corner of the World.

The way between is
difficult and long, Face to face
how shall we meet again?

Since we parted the time
is already long, Daily my
clothes hang looser round my waist.

Floating clouds obscure the
white sun, The wandering one
has quite forgotten home.

Thinking of you has made
me suddenly old, The months and
years swiftly draw to their close.

I’ll put you out of my
mind and forget for ever And try
with all my might to eat and thrive.

Green, green,
The grass by the
river-bank.

Thick, thick, The
willow trees in
the garden.

Sad, sad,
The lady in
the tower.

White, white,
Sitting at the casement
window.

Fair, fair,
Her red-powdered
face.

Small, small,
She puts out her
pale hand.

Once she
was a
dancing-house girl.

Now she
is a wandering
man’s wife.

The wandering
man went, but did
not return.

It is hard
alone to keep
an empty bed.

Green, green, The
cypress on
the mound.

Firm, firm,
The boulder
in the stream.

Man’s life lived within this
world, Is like the sojourning of
a hurried traveller.

A cup of wine together
will make us glad, And a little
friendship is no little matter.

Yoking my
chariot I urge my stubborn
horses.

I wander
about in the streets
of Wan and Lo.

In Lo Town
how fine
everything is!

The “Caps and
Belts” go seeking
each other out.

The great boulevards are
intersected by lanes, Wherein
are the town-houses of Royal Dukes.

The two palaces stare
at each other from afar, The
twin gates rise a hundred feet.

By prolonging the feast
let us keep our hearts gay, And leave
no room for sadness to creep in.

Of this day’s glorious
feast and revel The pleasure and delight
are difficult to describe.

Plucking the lute they sent
forth lingering sounds, The new melodies
in beauty reached the divine.

Skilful singers intoned
the high words, Those who knew the tune heard
the trueness of their singing.

We sat there each with the same desire And
like thoughts by each unexpressed: “Man in the world lodging for a single life-time
Passes suddenly like dust borne on the wind.

Then let us hurry out with high steps And be
the first to reach the highways and fords: Rather than stay at home
wretched and poor For long years plunged in sordid grief.

” In the north-west there is
a high house, Its top level
with the floating clouds.

Embroidered curtains thinly
screen its windows, Its storied tower
is built on three steps.

From above there comes
a noise of playing and singing,
The tune sounding, oh!

Who can it
be, playing so sad
a tune?

Surely it
must be Ch’i Liang’s
wife.

The tranquil “D” follows
the wind’s rising, The middle
lay lingers indecisive.

To each note, two or
three sobs, Her high will conquered by
overwhelming grief.

She does not regret that she
is left so sad, But minds that so few
can understand her song.

She wants to become
those two wild geese That with beating
wings rise high aloft.

Crossing the river I
pluck hibiscus-flowers: In the orchid-swamps
are many fragrant herbs.

I gather
them, but who shall
I send them to?

My love
is living in lands
far away.

I turn and look towards
my own country: The long road
stretches on for ever.

The same heart, yet a different
dwelling: Always fretting, till
we are grown old!

A bright moon illumines
the night-prospect: The house-cricket chirrups on
the eastern wall.

The Handle of the
Pole-star points to the Beginning
of Winter.

The host of stars
is scattered over
the sky.

The white dew wets the
moor-grasses,-- With sudden swiftness the
times and seasons change.

The autumn cicada
sings among the trees, The swallows,
alas, whither are they gone?

Once I had a
same-house friend, He took flight and
rose high away.

He did not remember how
once we went hand in hand, But left me like
footsteps behind one in the dust.

In the South is the Winnowing-fan
and the Pole-star in the North, And a Herd-boy whose ox
has never borne the yoke.

A friend who is not firm as
a great rock Is of no profit
and idly bears the name.

In the courtyard there grows
a strange tree, Its green leaves ooze
with a fragrant moisture.

Holding the branch I cut a
flower from the tree, Meaning to send it away
to the person I love.

Its sweet
smell fills my sleeves
and lap.

The road is
long, how shall I get
it there?

Such a thing is not fine enough
to send: But it may remind him of the time
that has past since he left.

Far away twinkles the
Herd-boy star; Brightly shines the Lady
of the Han River.

Slender, slender
she plies her white
fingers.

Click, click go
the wheels of her
spinning-loom.

At the end of the day
she has not finished her task; Her bitter
tears fall like streaming rain.

The Han River runs
shallow and clear; Set between
them, how short a space!

But the river water will not
let them pass, Gazing at each other
but never able to speak.

Turning my
chariot I yoke my
horses and go.

On and on down the
long roads The autumn winds shake
the hundred grasses.

On every
side, how desolate
and bare!

The things I meet are
all new things, Their strangeness hastens
the coming of old age.

Prosperity
and decay each have their
season.

Success is bitter
when it is slow
in coming.

Man’s life is not metal
or stone, He cannot far prolong
the days of his fate.

Suddenly
he follows in the
way of things that change.

Fame is the
only treasure that
endures.

The Eastern Castle
stands tall and high; Far and wide
stretch the towers that guard it.

The whirling wind uprises
and shakes the earth; The autumn grasses
grow thick and green.

The four seasons alternate
without pause, The year’s end hurries
swiftly on.

The Bird of the Morning Wind
is stricken with sorrow; The frail
cicada suffers and is hard pressed.

Free and clear, let
us loosen the
bonds of our hearts.

Why should we
go on always
restraining and binding?

In Yen and Chao are
many fair ladies, Beautiful people
with faces like jade.

Their clothes
are made all of
silk gauze.

They stand at
the door practising
tranquil lays.

The echo
of their singing,
how sad it sounds!

By the pitch of
the song one knows the
stops have been tightened.

To ease their minds they arrange
their shawls and belts; Lowering their song, a
little while they pause.

“I should like to be those two flying
swallows Who are carrying clay to
nest in the eaves of your house.

” I drive my chariot up to
the Eastern Gate; From afar I see
the graveyard north of the Wall.

The white aspens how they
murmur, murmur; Pines and cypresses
flank the broad paths.

Beneath lie men who
died long ago; Black, black is
the long night that holds them.

Deep down beneath the
Yellow Springs, Thousands of
years they lie without waking.

In infinite succession
light and darkness shift, And years vanish
like the morning dew.

Man’s life is like a sojourning,
His longevity lacks the firmness
of stone and metal.

For ever it has been
that mourners in their turn were mourned, Saint
and Sage,--all alike are trapped.

Seeking by food to obtain
Immortality Many have
been the dupe of strange drugs.

Better far to drink
good wine And clothe our bodies
in robes of satin and silk.

The dead are gone and
with them we cannot
converse.

The living are
here and ought to have
our love.

Leaving the city-gate I look
ahead And see before me
only mounds and tombs.

The old graves are ploughed
up into fields, The pines and cypresses
are hewn for timber.

In the white aspens sad
winds sing; Their long murmuring
kills my heart with grief.

I want to go
home, to ride to my
village gate.

I want to go
back, but there’s no
road back.

The years of a
lifetime do not
reach a hundred.

Yet they contain
a thousand years’
sorrow.

When days are short and
the dull nights long, Why not take a
lamp and wander forth?

If you want to be happy
you must do it now, There is no
waiting till an after-time.

The fool who’s loath to
spend the wealth he’s got Becomes the laughing-stock
of after ages.

It is true that Master
Wang became immortal, But how can
_we_ hope to share his lot?

Cold, cold the year draws to its
end, The crickets and grasshoppers
make a doleful chirping.

The chill wind
increases its
violence.

My wandering
love has no coat to
cover him.

He gave his embroidered furs
to the Lady of Lo, But from me his
bedfellow he is quite estranged.

Sleeping alone in the depth
of the long night In a dream I thought
I saw the light of his face.

My dear one thought of our
old joys together, He came in his
chariot and gave me the front reins.

I wanted so to prolong
our play and laughter, To hold his
hand and go back with him in his coach.

But, when he had come he
would not stay long Nor stop to go with me
to the Inner Chamber.

Truly without the falcon’s
wings to carry me How can I rival
the flying wind’s swiftness?

I go and lean at the
gate and think of my grief, My falling
tears wet the double gates.

At the beginning of
winter a cold spirit comes,
The North Wind blows--chill, chill.

My sorrows being many, I
know the length of the nights, Raising my head I
look at the stars in their places.

On the fifteenth day the bright
moon is full, On the twentieth
day the “toad and hare” wane.

” I put the letter away
in the folds of my dress, For three years the
writing did not fade.

How with an undivided
heart I loved you I fear that you
will never know or guess.

The bright moon, oh, how white
it shines, Shines down on the gauze
curtains of my bed.

Racked by sorrow
I toss and cannot
sleep.

Picking up
my clothes, I wander
up and down.

My absent love says that he
is happy, But I would rather he
said he was coming back.

Out in the courtyard
I stand hesitating,
alone.

To whom
can I tell the sad
thoughts I think?

Staring before me I
enter my room again; Falling
tears wet my mantle and robe.

Autumn wind
rises: white
clouds fly.

Grass and
trees wither:
geese go south.

Orchids all
in bloom: chrysanthemums
smell sweet.

I think of my
lovely lady: I never
can forget.

Across the mid-stream white waves rise Flute and
drum keep time to sound of the rowers’ song; Amidst revel
and feasting, sad thoughts come; Youth’s years how few!

The sound
of her silk
skirt has stopped.

On the marble
pavement dust
grows.

Her empty
room is cold
and still.

Fallen leaves are
piled against
the doors.

Longing for that lovely
lady How can I bring my
aching heart to rest?

Is it
or isn’t
it?

I
stand
and look.

The swish,
swish of
a silk skirt.

How slow
she
comes!

Our love was pure As the snow on the mountains:
White as a moon Between the clouds-- They’re telling me Your thoughts
are double That’s why I’ve come To break it off.

To-day we’ll
drink A cup
of wine.

To-morrow we’ll part Beside the Canal:
Walking about Beside the Canal, Where its
branches divide East and west.

Alas
and alas, And
again alas.

So must a girl Cry when she’s married,
If she find not a man Of single heart, Who will
not leave her Till her hair is white.

Since our hair was plaited and
we became man and wife The love between
us was never broken by doubt.

So let us be merry
this night together, Feasting and
playing while the good time lasts.

I suddenly remember the
distance that I must travel; I spring from
bed and look out to see the time.

The stars and planets are all
grown dim in the sky; Long, long is
the road; I cannot stay.

I am going on
service, away to the battle-ground, And I
do not know when I shall come back.

I hold your hand with only
a deep sigh; Afterwards, tears--in the days
when we are parted.

With all your might enjoy the
spring flowers, But do not forget
the time of our love and pride.

Know that if I live, I will come
back again, And if I die, we will go
on thinking of each other.

The good time will never
come back again: In a moment,--our parting
will be over.

Anxiously--we halt at the
road-side, Hesitating--we embrace
where the fields begin.

The clouds above are floating
across the sky: Swiftly, swiftly passing:
or blending together.

The waves in the wind lose
their fixed place And are rolled away each
to a corner of Heaven.

From now onwards--long
must be our
parting.

So let us
stop again for
a little while.

I wish I could ride on
the wings of the morning wind And go with
you right to your journey’s end.

I came ten thousand leagues Across
sandy deserts In the service of
my Prince, To break the Hun tribes.

My way was
blocked and barred, My arrows
and sword broken.

My armies had
faded away, My
reputation had gone.

My old
mother is
long dead.

Although I want
to requite my Prince How
can I return?

My people have married me In a
far corner of Earth: Sent me away to a
strange land, To the king of the Wu-sun.

A tent is my house,
Of felt are my walls; Raw flesh my
food With mare’s milk to drink.

Always thinking
of my own country, My
heart sad within.

Would I were a
yellow stork And could
fly to my old home!

Solemn, solemn the
coachman gets ready to go:
“Chiang, chiang” the harness bells ring.

At break of dawn I
must start on my long journey: At cock-crow
I must gird on my belt.

I turn back and look at
the empty room: For a moment I
almost think I see you there.

One parting, but ten thousand
regrets: As I take my seat, my
heart is unquiet.

What shall
I do to tell
you all my thoughts?

How can
I let you know of all
my love?

Precious hairpins make
the head to shine And bright mirrors
can reflect beauty.

Fragrant herbs banish
evil smells And the scholar’s
harp has a clear note.

The man in the Book of Odes who
was given a quince Wanted to pay it
back with diamonds and rubies.

When I think of all the things you
have done for me, How ashamed I am
to have done so little for you!

Although I know that it is
a poor return, All I can give you is this
description of my feelings.

My poor body is
alas unworthy: I was ill when
first you brought me home.

Limp and weary
in the house-- Time passed and
I got no better.

We could hardly ever
see each other: I could not
serve you as I ought.

Then you received the Imperial
Mandate: You were ordered to go far
away to the City.

Long, long must be our
parting: I was not destined
to tell you my thoughts.

I stood on tiptoe gazing
into the distance, Interminably gazing
at the road that had taken you.

With thoughts of you my mind is
obsessed: In my dreams I see
the light of your face.

Now you are started on
your long journey Each day brings
you further from me.

Oh that I had
a bird’s wings And high flying
could follow you.

Long I sob and
long I cry: The tears fall
down and wet my skirt.

On the Eastern Way at the city of
Lo-yang At the edge of the road peach-trees and plum-trees grow; On the two sides,--flower matched
by flower; Across the road,--leaf touching leaf.

A spring wind rises
from the north-east; Flowers and leaves
gently nod and sway.

Up the road somebody’s
daughter comes Carrying a basket,
to gather silkworms’ food.

(_She sees the fruit trees in blossom
and, forgetting about her silkworms, begins
to pluck the branches.

_) With her slender hand she
breaks a branch from the tree; The flowers
fall, tossed and scattered in the wind.

“Lovely lady, I never
did you harm; Why should you hate
me and do me injury?

Though in the autumn your
leaves patter to the ground, When spring
comes, your gay bloom returns.

But in men’s lives when their
bright youth is spent Joy and love never
come back again.

” When I was young, throughout
the hot season There were no carriages
driving about the roads.

People shut their doors and
lay down in the cool: Or if they went
out, it was not to pay calls.

Nowadays--ill-bred, ignorant
fellows, When they feel the heat,
make for a friend’s house.

The unfortunate host,
when he hears someone coming Scowls and frowns,
but can think of no escape.

“There’s nothing for it but to rise
and go to the door,” And in his comfortable
seat he groans and sighs.

The conversation
does not end quickly: Prattling and babbling,
what a lot he says!

Only when one is almost
dead with fatigue He asks at last if
one isn’t finding him tiring.

(One’s arm is almost in half
with continual fanning: The sweat is pouring
down one’s neck in streams.

) Do not say that this is a
small matter: I consider the practice
a blot on our social life.

I therefore caution
all wise men That August visitors
should not be admitted.

I look up and see / his
curtains and bed: I look down and examine
/ his table and mat.

The things
are there / just as
before.

But the man
they belonged to / is
not there.

His spirit suddenly
/ has taken flight And left me behind
/ far away.

To whom shall
I look / on
whom rely?

My tears flow
/ in an endless
stream.

“Yu, yu” / cry the wandering
deer As they carry fodder
/ to their young in the wood.

Flap, flap / fly the birds
As they carry their little
ones / back to the nest.

I alone / am desolate
Dreading the days / of our long parting: My grieving
heart’s / settled pain No one else / can understand.

There is a saying
/ among people “Sorrow makes
us / grow old.

” Alas,
alas / for
my white hairs!

All too
early
/ they have come!

Long wailing, / long
sighing My thoughts are fixed on
my sage parent.

They say the
good / live long: Then why
was he / not spared?

My charioteer hastens
to yoke my carriage, For I must go
on a journey far away.

“Where are you going
on your journey
far away?

” To the land
of Wu where my
enemies are.

But I must ride many
thousand miles, Beyond the
Eastern Road that leads to Wu.

I want to take a skiff
and cross these rivers, But alas for
me, where shall I find a boat?

To sit idle is not my
desire: Gladly enough would I
go to my country’s aid.

In the North-west there is
a floating cloud Stretched on high, like
a chariot’s canvas-awning.

Alas that I was born in
these times, To be blown along like
a cloud puffed by the wind!

It has blown me away
far to the South-east, On and on
till I came to Wu-hui.

Wu-hui is not my country:
Why should I go on staying
and staying here?

I will give it up and never
speak of it again,-- This being abroad
and always living in dread.

I climb to the ridge of Pei
Mang Mountain And look down on
the city of Lo-yang.

In Lo-yang
how still it
is!

Palaces and
houses all burnt
to ashes.

Walls and fences all
broken and gaping, Thorns and brambles
shooting up to the sky.

I do not see the
old old-men: I only see
the new young men.

I turn aside, for the straight
road is lost: The fields are overgrown and
will never be ploughed again.

I have been away such
a long time That I do not
know which street is which.

How sad and
ugly the empty
moors are!

A thousand miles
without the smoke of a
chimney.

I think of the house
I lived in all those years: I am
heart-tied and cannot speak.

“Wondrous was the wall-stone, Weirdly broken;
Burgh-steads bursten, Giants’ work tumbleth, Roofs are wrenched,
Towers totter, Bereft of rune-gates.

Smoke is on the plaster,
Scarred the shower-burghs, Shorn and shattered,
By eld under-eaten.

Earth’s grip
haveth Wealders and
workmen.

” Our wandering
eyes are sated with
the dancer’s skill.

Our ears are
weary with the
sound of “kung” and “shang.

” Our host is silent
and sits doing nothing: All the guests go
on to places of amusement.

On long benches the
sportsmen sit ranged Round a cleared room,
watching the fighting-cocks.

The gallant birds are
all in battle-trim: They raise their tails and
flap defiantly.

Their beating wings stir
the calm air: Their angry eyes
gleam with a red light.

Where their beaks have struck, the fine feathers
are scattered: With their strong talons they
wound again and again.

Their long cries enter the
blue clouds; Their flapping wings
tirelessly beat and throb.

“Pray God the lamp-oil lasts a little
longer, Then I shall not leave without
winning the match!

” In the Nine Provinces there is not room enough: I
want to soar high among the clouds, And, far beyond the Eight Limits of the
compass, Cast my gaze across the unmeasured void.

The doors of Heaven
swing open, The double gates
shine with a red light.

The Lord God lies at his western
lattice: And the lesser Spirits are together
in the eastern gallery.

They wash me in a bath
of rainbow-spray And gird me with a
belt of jasper and rubies.

I wander at my ease
gathering divine herbs: I bend down
and touch the scented flowers.

Wang-tzŭ gives me drugs
of long-life And Hsien-mēn
hands me strange potions.

By the partaking of food I evade
the rites of Death: My span is extended to the
enjoyment of life everlasting.

Flap, flap, you curtain
in front of our
bed!

I hung you there
to screen us from
the light of day.

I brought you with me when I
left my father’s house; Now I am
taking you back with me again.

I will fold
you up and lay you
flat in your box.

Curtain--shall I
ever take you out
again?

When I was young I
learnt fencing And was better at
it than Crooked Castle.

My spirit was high
as the rolling clouds And my fame
resounded beyond the World.

I took my sword to
the desert sands, I drank my
horse at the Nine Moors.

My flags and banners
flapped in the wind, And nothing was heard
but the song of my drums.

War and its travels have made me sad, And a
fierce anger burns within me: It’s thinking of how I’ve wasted
my time That makes this fury tear my heart.

I will cast
out Wisdom and
reject Learning.

My thoughts
shall wander in
the Great Void (_bis_).

Always repenting
of wrongs done Will never bring
my heart to rest.

I cast my hook in a single
stream; But my joy is as though I
possessed a Kingdom.

I loose my hair and
go singing; To the four frontiers
men join in my refrain.

This is the purport
of my song: “My thoughts shall wander
in the Great Void.

” A gentle wind fans
the calm night: A bright moon shines
on the high tower.

A voice whispers, but no one
answers when I call: A shadow stirs, but
no one comes when I beckon.

The kitchen-man brings in
a dish of lentils: Wine is there,
but I do not fill my cup.

Contentment with poverty
is Fortune’s best gift: Riches and Honour are
the handmaids of Disaster.

Though gold and gems by the
world are sought and prized, To me they
seem no more than weeds or chaff.

How sad it is
to be a
woman!

Nothing
on earth is held
so cheap.

Boys stand leaning
at the door Like Gods fallen
out of Heaven.

Their hearts brave the Four
Oceans, The wind and dust of
a thousand miles.

No one is glad when
a girl is born: By _her_ the
family sets no store.

When she grows up, she hides
in her room Afraid to look
a man in the face.

No one cries when
she leaves her home-- Sudden
as clouds when the rain stops.

She bows her head and composes
her face, Her teeth are pressed on her red lips:
She bows and kneels countless times.

She must humble
herself even to
the servants.

_His_ love is distant as
the stars in Heaven, Yet the sunflower
bends toward the sun.

Their hearts more sundered than water
and fire-- A hundred evils
are heaped upon her.

Her face will follow
the years’ changes: Her lord
will find new pleasures.

They that were once like
substance and shadow Are now
as far as Hu from Ch’in.

Yet Hu and Ch’in shall sooner
meet Than they whose parting is like
Ts’an and Ch’ēn.

When I was young I played with
a soft brush And was passionately
devoted to reading all sorts of books.

But then the arrows
began singing at
the frontier.

And a winged summons
came flying to the
City.

Although arms were
not my profession, I had
once read Jang-Chū’s war-book.

I shouted aloud and my cries
rent the air: I felt as though Tung Wu were
already annihilated.

The scholar’s knife cuts best at its
first use And my dreams hurried on to
the completion of my plan.

I wanted at a stroke to
clear the Yang-tze and Hsiang, And at a glance to
quell the Tibetans and Hu.

When my task was done, I should not accept
a barony, But refusing with a bow, retire
to a cottage in the country.

Flap, flap, the captive bird
in the cage Beating its wings
against the four corners.

Depressed, depressed the scholar
in the narrow street: Clasping a shadow,
he dwells in an empty house.

When he goes out, there is nowhere
for him to go: Bunches and brambles
block up his path.

He composes a memorial,
but it is rejected and unread, He is left stranded,
like a fish in a dry pond.

Without--he has not a single farthing
of salary: Within--there is not a peck
of grain in his larder.

His relations upbraid him
for his lack of success: His friends and callers
daily decrease in number.

I once hoped to pluck
the fruits of life: But now alas,
they are all withered and dry.

Though one drinks at a river, one cannot
drink more than a bellyful; Enough is good, but
there is no use in satiety.

The bird in a forest can
perch but on one bough, And this should
be the wise man’s pattern.

At Pei-mang how they rise
to Heaven, Those high mounds, four
or five in the fields!

What men lie
buried under
these tombs?

All of
them were Lords
of the Han world.

When the dynasty was falling,
tumult and disorder arose, Thieves and
robbers roamed like wild beasts.

Of earth they have carried away
more than one handful, They have gone into
vaults and opened the secret doors.

Over everything the
tangled thorns are growing: A herd-boy pushes
through them up the path.

Down in the thorns rabbits
have made their burrows: The weeds and thistles
will never be cleared away.

Over the tombs the ploughshare
will be driven And peasants will have their
fields and orchards there.

They that were once lords of a
thousand hosts Are now become the dust
of the hills and ridges.

” When I was alive, I wandered in
the streets of the Capital: Now that I am
dead, I am left to lie in the fields.

In the morning I drove
out from the High Hall: In the evening I
lodged beneath the Yellow Springs.

When the white sun had sunk in
the Western Chasm I hung up my chariot
and rested my four horses.

Now, even the mighty
Maker of All Could not bring the
life back to my limbs.

Shape and substance day
by day will vanish: Hair and teeth will
gradually fall away.

Forever from of
old men have been so: And none
born can escape this thing.

Living in retirement beyond the World,
Silently enjoying isolation, I pull the rope of my door
tighter And stuff my window with roots and ferns.

My spirit is tuned to
the Spring-season: At the fall of the
year there is autumn in my heart.

Thus imitating
cosmic changes My cottage becomes
a Universe.

Shady, shady the wood
in front of the Hall: At midsummer
full of calm shadows.

The south wind follows summer’s
train: With its eddying-puffs it blows
open my coat.

I am free from
ties and can live a life of
retirement.

When I rise
from sleep, I play with
books and harp.

The lettuce in the garden
still grows moist: Of last year’s grain there is
always plenty left.

Self-support should maintain strict
limits: More than enough
is not what I want.

I grind millet and make
good wine: When the wine is heated,
I pour it out for myself.

My little children are
playing at my side, Learning to
talk, they babble unformed sounds.

These things have made me happy
again And I forget my
lost cap of office.

Distant, distant I gaze at the white
clouds: With a deep yearning I think of the
Sages of Antiquity.

In the quiet of the morning
I heard a knock at my door: I threw on my
clothes and opened it myself.

I asked who it was who had come so
early to see me: He said he was a peasant,
coming with good intent.

He brought a present of
wine and rice-soup, Believing that I had
fallen on evil days.

“You live in rags under a
thatched roof And seem to have no
desire for a better lot.

The rest of mankind have
all the same ambitions: You, too, must
learn to wallow in their mire.

” “Old man, I am impressed
by what you say, But my soul is
not fashioned like other men’s.

To drive in their rut I might
perhaps learn: To be untrue to myself
could only lead to muddle.

Let us drink and enjoy together
the wine you have brought: For my course is set and
cannot now be altered.

” A long time ago I went
on a journey, Right to the corner
Of the Eastern Ocean.

The road there Was
long and winding, And stormy
waves Barred my path.

What made me
Go this
way?

Hunger drove
me Into
the World.

I tried hard To fill
my belly: And even a
little Seemed a lot.

But this was clearly
A bad bargain, So I went
home And lived in idleness.

High and low, wise and
simple, all busily hoard
up the moments of life.

Therefore I have to the uttermost exposed the
bitterness both of Substance and Shadow, and have made Spirit show how,
by following Nature, we may dissolve this bitterness.

Heaven and Earth exist
for ever: Mountains and rivers
never change.

But herbs and trees in perpetual rotation
Are renovated and withered by the dews and frosts: And Man the wise,
Man the divine-- Shall he alone escape this law?

Fortuitously appearing
for a moment in the World He suddenly
departs, never to return.

How can he know that
the friends he has left Are missing
him and thinking of him?

Only the things that
he used remain; They look upon
them and their tears flow.

Me no magical
arts can save, Though you may hope
for a wizard’s aid.

I beg you listen
to this advice-- When you can get
wine, be sure to drink it.

There is
no way to preserve
life.

Drugs of
Immortality
are instruments of folly.

I would gladly wander
in Paradise, But it is far
away and there is no road.

Since the day that I
was joined to you We have shared
all our joys and pains.

While you rested in the shade,
I left you a while: But till the end
we shall be together.

Our joint existence
is impermanent: Sadly together
we shall slip away.

That when the body decays Fame
should also go Is a thought
unendurable, burning the heart.

Let us strive and
labour while yet we may To
do some deed that men will praise.

Wine may in truth dispel
our sorrow, But how compare
it with lasting Fame?

God can only set
in motion: He cannot control
the things he has made.

Man, the second
of the Three Orders, Owes his
precedence to Me.

Though I am different from you, We were
born involved in one another: Nor by any means can we
escape The intimate sharing of good and ill.

The Three
Emperors were saintly
men, Yet to-day--where are they?

P’ēng lived to a
great age, Yet he went at last, when
he longed to stay.

And late or soon,
all go: Wise and simple
have no reprieve.

Wine may bring
forgetfulness, But does
it not hasten old-age?

If you set your heart
on noble deeds, How do you
know that any will praise you?

Chill and harsh the year draws
to its close: In my cotton dress
I seek sunlight on the porch.

In the southern orchard
all the leaves are gone: In the north
garden rotting boughs lie heaped.

I empty my cup and
drink it down to the dregs: I look towards
the kitchen, but no smoke rises.

Poems and books lie piled beside
my chair: But the light is going and I shall
not have time to read them.

My life here is not like the
Agony in Ch’ēn, But often I
have to bear bitter reproaches.

Let me then remember, to
calm my heart’s distress, That the Sages
of old were often in like case.

White hair covers my temples, I am
wrinkled and seared beyond repair, And though I have
got five sons, They all hate paper and brush.

A-shu is eighteen: For
laziness there is
none like him.

A-hsüan does his
best, But really
loathes the Fine Arts.

But
does not
know “six” from “seven.

” T’ung-tzŭ in his ninth
year Is only concerned
with things to eat.

If Heaven treats
me like this, What can I
do but fill my cup?

I built my hut in a zone
of human habitation, Yet near me there
sounds no noise of horse or coach.

Would you know
how that is
possible?

A heart that is
distant creates a
wilderness round it.

I pluck chrysanthemums under
the eastern hedge, Then gaze long at the
distant summer hills.

The mountain air is fresh at
the dusk of day: The flying birds
two by two return.

In these things there lies a
deep meaning; Yet when we would express it,
words suddenly fail us.

My old desire to live in the
Southern Village Was not because I had taken
a fancy to the house.

But I heard it was a place
of simple-minded men With whom it were a joy to
spend the mornings and evenings.

Many years I had longed
to settle here: Now at last I have
managed to move house.

I do not mind if my cottage
is rather small So long as there’s room enough
for bed and mat.

Often and often the
neighbours come to see me And with brave words
discuss the things of old.

Rare writings we read together
and praise: Doubtful meanings we examine
together and settle.

When I was young, I was out
of tune with the herd: My only love
was for the hills and mountains.

Unwitting I fell into
the Web of the World’s dust And was not
free until my thirtieth year.

The migrant bird longs
for the old wood: The fish in the tank thinks
of its native pool.

I had rescued from wildness a patch
of the Southern Moor And, still rustic, I
returned to field and garden.

My ground covers no more than
ten acres: My thatched cottage
has eight or nine rooms.

Elms and willows cluster
by the eaves: Peach trees and plum trees
grow before the Hall.

Hazy, hazy
the distant hamlets
of men.

Steady the smoke of the half-deserted village,
A dog barks somewhere in the deep lanes, A cock crows at
the top of the mulberry tree.

At gate and courtyard--no murmur
of the World’s dust: In the empty
rooms--leisure and deep stillness.

Long I lived checked by the
bars of a cage: Now I have turned again
to Nature and Freedom.

In the month of June the
grass grows high And round my cottage
thick-leaved branches sway.

There is not a bird but delights
in the place where it rests: And I
too--love my thatched cottage.

I have done
my ploughing: I
have sown my seed.

Again I have
time to sit and
read my books.

In the narrow lane there are
no deep ruts: Often my friends’
carriages turn back.

In high spirits I pour
out my spring wine And pluck the
lettuce growing in my garden.

A gentle rain comes stealing
up from the east And a sweet wind bears
it company.

My thoughts float idly over the story
of King Chou My eyes wander over the
pictures of Hills and Seas.

At a single
glance I survey the whole
Universe.

He will never be
happy, whom such pleasures
fail to please!

The lingering clouds, rolling,
rolling, And the settled rain, dripping, dripping,
In the Eight Directions--the same dusk.

The level
lands--one great
river.

Wine I have, wine I
have: Idly I drink at the
eastern window.

Longingly--I think
of my friends, But neither
boat nor carriage comes.

Swiftly
the years, beyond
recall.

Solemn the stillness
of this fair
morning.

I will clothe myself
in spring-clothing And visit the
slopes of the Eastern Hill.

By the mountain-stream a
mist hovers, Hovers a moment,
then scatters.

There comes a wind blowing
from the south That brushes the
fields of new corn.

I collected
together All
my friends.

Loud talk And simple feasting:
Discussion of philosophy,
Investigation of subtleties.

Tongues loosened
And minds at
one.

Hearts refreshed
By discharge of
emotion!

High rises the
Eastern Peak Soaring up
to the blue sky.

Among the rocks--an
empty hollow, Secret,
still, mysterious!

Uncarved and unhewn,
Screened by nature with a
roof of clouds.

Times and Seasons, what
things are you Bringing to my
life ceaseless change?

I will lodge for ever
in this hollow Where Springs
and Autumns unheeded pass.

All night I could
not sleep Because of the
moonlight on my bed.

I kept on hearing
a voice calling: Out of Nowhere,
Nothing answered “yes.

” I will carry my coat and
not put on my belt; With unpainted eyebrows
I will stand at the front window.

My tiresome petticoat
keeps on flapping about; If it opens a little,
I shall blame the spring wind.

I heard my love was
going to Yang-chou And went with
him as far as Ch’u-shan.

For a moment when you held
me fast in your outstretched arms I thought the river
stood still and did not flow.

I have brought my pillow and am
lying at the northern window, So come to
me and play with me awhile.

With so much quarrelling
and so few kisses How long do you
think our love can last?

Her door opened on the white water Close
by the side of the timber bridge: That’s where the little lady
lived All alone without a lover.

Green rushes with red shoots, Long leaves
bending to the wind-- You and I in the same boat
Plucking rushes at the Five Lakes.

We started at dawn from
the orchid-island: We rested under
the elms till noon.

You and I plucking
rushes Had not plucked a handful
when night came!

“Seeing the plum-tree I thought of the Western
Island And I plucked a branch to send
to the North Country.

I put on my dress of
apricot-yellow silk And bound up my hair
black as the crow’s wing.

But which is the road
that leads to the Western
Island?

I’ll ask the man at
the ferry by the
Bridge of Boats.

But the sun is sinking and the
orioles flying home: And the wind is blowing
and sighing in the walnut-tree.

I’ll stand under the tree just
beside the gate: I’ll stand by the door
and show off my enamelled hair-pins.

” She’s opened the gate, but
her lover has not come: She’s gone out
at the gate to pluck red lotus.

As she plucks the lotus on the
southern dyke in autumn, The lotus flowers
stand higher than a man’s head.

She bends down--and plays with
the lotus seeds, The lotus
seeds are green like the lake-water.

She gathers the flowers and
puts them into her gown-- The lotus-bud
that is red all through.

She thinks of her lover, her lover
that does not come: She looks up and sees the wild geese flying--
The Western Island is full of wild geese.

To look for her
lover she climbs
the Blue Tower.

The tower is high: she
looks, but cannot see: All day she leans
on the balcony rails.

The rail is
twisted into
a twelve-fold pattern.

She lets fall her
hand white like the colour
of jade.

She rolls up the awning,
she sees the wide sky, And the sea-water
waving its vacant blue.

“The sea shall carry my dreams far
away, So that you shall be sorry
at last for my sorrow.

If the South wind--only knew my
thoughts It would blow my dreams till they got
to the Western Island.

” I was brought up under
the Stone Castle: My window opened
on to the castle tower.

In the castle were
beautiful young men Who waved to me as
they went in and out.

Chiang-nan is a glorious
and beautiful land, And Chin-ling an
exalted and kingly province!

The green canals of the city
stretch on and on And its high towers
stretch up and up.

Flying gables lean over
the bridle-road: Drooping willows cover
the Royal Aqueduct.

Shrill flutes sing by the coach’s
awning, And reiterated
drums bang near its painted wheels.

The names of the
deserving shall be carved
on the Cloud Terrace.

And for those who
have done valiantly
rich reward awaits.

Now late I follow Time’s
Necessity: Mounting a barricade
I pacify remote tribes.

Discarding my sash I don a
coat of rhinoceros-skin: Rolling up my
skirts I shoulder a black bow.

Even at the very
start my strength fails: What will become of me
before it’s all over?

Red hills lie athwart us
as a menace in the west, And fiery
mountains glare terrible in the south.

The body burns, the
head aches and throbs: If a bird light here, its
soul forthwith departs.

Warm springs Pour from
cloudy pools And hot smoke issues
between the rocks.

The sun and moon are
perpetually obscured: The
rain and dew never stay dry.

There are red serpents
a hundred feet long, And black snakes
ten girths round.

The sand-spitters shoot their poison at
the sunbeams: The flying insects are
ill with the shifting glare.

The hungry monkeys dare not
come down to eat: The morning birds
dare not set out to fly.

At the Ching river many die
of poison: Crossing the Lu one is lucky
if one is only ill.

Our living feet
walk on dead ground: Our high
wills surmount the snares of Fate.

The Spear-boat General
got but little honour: The
Wave-subduer met with scant reward.

If our Prince still grudges the things
that are easy to give, Can he hope that his
soldiers will give what is hardest to give?

“I heard at night your
long sighs And knew that you
were thinking of me.

” As she spoke, the doors of Heaven
opened And our souls conversed
and I saw her face.

She set me a
pillow to rest on And
she brought me meat and drink.

I stood beside her where she lay, But suddenly
woke and she was not there: And none knew how my soul was torn, How
the tears fell surging over my breast.

In the high trees--many doleful
winds: The ocean waters--lashed
into waves.

If the sharp sword be not
in your hand, How can you hope your friends
will remain many?

Do you not
see that sparrow
on the fence?

Seeing the hawk
it casts itself
into the snare.

The fowler to catch the
sparrow is delighted: The Young Man to
see the sparrow is grieved.

He takes his sword and
cuts through the netting: The yellow sparrow
flies away, away.

Away, away, up
to the blue sky And down again
to thank the Young Man.

A beautiful place
is the town of Lo-yang: The big streets
are full of spring light.

The lads go driving out with harps
in their hands: The mulberry girls go out
to the fields with their baskets.

Golden whips
glint at the
horses’ flanks.

Gauze sleeves
brush the green
boughs.

Racing dawn, the carriages
come home,-- And the girls with their high baskets
full of fruit.

My bed is so empty that
I keep on waking up: As the cold increases,
the night-wind begins to blow.

It rustles the curtains, making
a noise like the sea: Oh that those were waves
which could carry me back to you!

Entering the Hall, she
meets the new wife: Leaving the gate, she runs
into her former husband.

Words stick: she does not manage to
say anything: She presses her hands
together and hesitates.

Agitates moon-like fan--sheds pearl-like tears-- Realizes
she loves him just as much as ever: That her present
pain will never come to an end.

Who says That it’s by my
desire, This separation,
this living so far from you?

My dress still smells of the
lavender you gave: My hand still holds
the letter that you sent.

Round my waist I wear
a double sash: I dream that it binds us
both with a same-heart knot.

Did not you know that people
hide their love, Like a flower that seems too
precious to be picked?

Of marsh-mallows my
boat is made, The
ropes are lily-roots.

The pole-star is
athwart the sky: The
moon sinks low.

It’s at
the ferry I’m plucking
lilies.

But it might be the Yellow River--
So afraid you seem of the wind and waves, So long
you tarry at the crossing.

The road that I came by mounts
eight thousand feet: The river that I
crossed hangs a hundred fathoms.

The brambles
so thick that in summer
one cannot pass!

The snow so
high that in winter
one cannot climb!

With branches that interlace
Lung Valley is dark: Against cliffs that tower
one’s voice beats and echoes.

I turn my head, and it
seems only a dream That I ever
lived in the streets of Hsien-yang.

The evening river is level
and motionless-- The spring colours
just open to their full.

Suddenly a wave carries
the moon away And the tidal water
comes with its freight of stars.

Kao Huan, that
son of a mouse Dared
to attack King Pi.

But at the first stroke of sword
and bow, The aggressor’s plot
recoiled on himself.

Tchirek River Lies under the
Dark Mountains: Where the sky is like the sides of a
tent Stretched down over the Great Steppe.

The sky is gray, gray: And the
steppe wide, wide: Over grass that the wind has battered
low Sheep and oxen roam.

Business men boast of their skill
and cunning But in philosophy they
are like little children.

Bragging to each other of successful
depredations They neglect to consider the
ultimate fate of the body.

“Tell me now, what should a
man want But to sit alone, sipping
his cup of wine?

Then I could jog through a
happy five-score years And, at the
end, need no Paradise.

These days, continually
fuddled with drink, I fail to satisfy
the appetites of the soul.

But seeing men all
behaving like drunkards, How can I
alone remain sober?

“His subjects were always original,
but his poems are seldom worth quoting,” is
a Chinese opinion of him.

I loved you dearly,
Stone Fish Lake, With your rock-island shaped
like a swimming fish!

On the fish’s back is
the Wine-cup Hollow And round the fish,--the flowing
waters of the Lake.

The boys on the shore sent little
wooden ships, Each made to carry a
single cup of wine.

The island-drinkers emptied
the liquor-boats And set their sails and
sent them back for more.

On the shores of the Lake were
jutting slabs of rock And under the rocks
there flowed an icy stream.

Heated with wine, to rinse
our mouths and hands In those cold waters
was a joy beyond compare!

Of gold and jewels I
have not any need; For Caps and
Coaches I do not care at all.

But I wish I could sit on the
rocky banks of the Lake For ever and ever
staring at the Stone Fish.

Above the lake are deep
mountain valleys, And men dwelling
whose hearts are without guile.

Gay like children, they swarm
to the tops of the trees; And run to
the water to catch bream and trout.

Their pleasures are the same as
those of beasts and birds; They put no restraint
either on body or mind.

Far I have wandered throughout
the Nine Lands; Wherever I went such
manners had disappeared.

I find myself standing and
wondering, perplexed, Whether Saints and Sages
have really done us good.

The hills and rivers
of the lowland country You
have made your battle-ground.

How do you suppose
the people who live there Will
procure “firewood and hay”?

Do not let me hear you talking together
About titles and promotions; For a single general’s
reputation Is made out of ten thousand corpses.

Families, when a
child is born Want it to
be intelligent.

I, through intelligence, Having
wrecked my whole life, Only hope the baby will
prove Ignorant and stupid.

Then he will crown a tranquil
life By becoming a Cabinet
Minister.

An old man selling
charms in a cranny of
the town wall.

He writes out spells
to bless the silkworms and spells
to protect the corn.

With the money he
gets each day he only
buys wine.

But he does not worry
when his legs get wobbly, For he
has a boy to lean on.

Away and away
I sail in my light boat; My heart leaps with
a great gust of joy.

Through the leafless branches I
see the temple in the wood; Over the dwindling
stream the stone bridge towers.

Down the grassy lanes sheep
and oxen pass; In the misty
village cranes and magpies cry.

Back in my home I drink
a cup of wine And need not fear
the greed of the evening wind.

In the southern village
the boy who minds the ox With his naked
feet stands on the ox’s back.

Through the hole in his coat
the river wind blows; Through his broken
hat the mountain rain pours.

On the long dyke he seemed to
be far away; In the narrow lane
suddenly we were face to face.

The boy is home and the
ox is back in its stall; And a dark smoke
oozes through the thatched roof.

Of Spring water,--thirty
or forty miles: In the
evening sunlight,--three or four houses.

Youths and boys minding
geese and ducks: Women and girls tending
mulberries and hemp.

The place,--remote: their coats
and scarves old: The year,--fruitful: their
talk and laughter gay.

The old wanderer moors
his flat boat And staggers up the bank to
pluck wistaria flowers.

The little cart
jolting and banging through the
yellow haze of dusk.

The man pushing
behind: the woman
pulling in front.

They have left the city
and do not know where
to go.

“Green, green, those elm-tree leaves: _they_ will cure
my hunger, If only we could find some quiet
place and sup on them together.

” The wind has flattened the yellow
mother-wort: Above it in the distance they
see the walls of a house.

“_There_ surely must be
people living who’ll give you
something to eat.

” They tap at the door, but
no one comes: they look in, but
the kitchen is empty.

They stand hesitating
in the lonely road and their
tears fall like rain.

Since I left my home
to seek official state Seven
years I have lived in Ch’ang-an.

What
have I
gained?

We have roamed on horseback under
the flowering trees; We have walked in the snow
and warmed our hearts with wine.

We have met and parted at
the Western Gate And neither of us
bothered to put on Cap or Belt.

We did not go up together
for Examination; We were not serving in
the same Department of State.

The bond that joined us
lay deeper than outward things; The rivers
of our souls spring from the same well!

I look down on
the Twelve City Streets:-- Red dust
flanked by green trees!

Coaches and horsemen alone
fill my eyes; I do not see whom my
heart longs to see.

Of all that walk on
the North-South Road There is not one that I care
for more than the rest!

At the palace doors the smell of
meat and wine; On the road the bones of
one who was frozen to death.

Ten leagues riding, always
facing to the North; The cold wind
almost blew off my ears.

I waited for the bell outside
the Five Gates; I waited for the summons
within the Triple Hall.

My hair and beard were frozen
and covered with icicles; My coat
and robe--chilly like water.

At the western window I
paused from writing rescripts; The pines and bamboos
were all buried in stillness.

The moon rose and a
calm wind came; Suddenly, it was like
an evening in the hills.

And so, as I dozed, I dreamed
of the South West And thought I was staying
at the Hsien-yu Temple.

When I woke and heard the dripping
of the Palace clock I still thought it the
murmur of a mountain stream.

The snow has
gone from Chung-nan; spring is
almost come.

Lovely in the distance
its blue colours, against the
brown of the streets.

A thousand coaches, ten thousand
horsemen pass down the Nine Roads; Turns his head
and looks at the mountains,--not one man!

We talked together
in the Yung-shou Temple; We parted to the
north of the Hsin-ch’ang dyke.

Going home--I shed a
few tears, Grieving about
things,--not sorry for you.

Long, long the road to
Lan-t’ien; You said yourself you would
not be able to write.

Reckoning up your halts
for eating and sleeping-- By this time
you’ve crossed the Shang mountains.

Last night the clouds scattered
away; A thousand leagues, the
same moonlight scene.

When dawn came, I dreamt I saw
your face; It must have been that you
were thinking of me.

In my dream, I thought I
held your hand And asked you to tell
me what your thoughts were.

And _you_ said: “I miss you
bitterly, But there’s no one here to
send to you with a letter.

” When I awoke, before
I had time to speak, A knocking on
the door sounded “Doong, doong!

” They came and told me a
messenger from Shang-chou Had brought a
letter,--a single scroll from you!

Up from my pillow I
suddenly sprang out of bed, And
threw you my clothes, all topsy-turvy.

I undid the knot and
saw the letter within; A single sheet
with thirteen lines of writing.

At the top it told the sorrows
of an exile’s heart; At the bottom it described
the pains of separation.

The sorrows and pains took
up so much space There was no room left
to talk about the weather!

But you said that when you wrote You were staying for the
night to the east of Shang-chou; Sitting alone, lighted by a solitary
candle Lodging in the mountain hostel of Yang-Ch’ēng.

Night was late when you
finished writing, The mountain moon
was slanting towards the west.

What is it
lies aslant across
the moon?

A single tree of purple _paulovnia_ flowers--
Paulovnia flowers just on the point of falling Are a
symbol to express “thinking of an absent friend.

” Lovingly--you wrote on the back
side, To send in the letter, your “Poem of
the Paulovnia Flower.

” The Poem of the Paulovnia
Flower has eight rhymes; Yet these eight couplets have
cast a spell on my heart.

They have taken hold of this
morning’s thoughts And carried them to yours, the
night you wrote your letter.

The whole poem
I read three times; Each verse ten
times I recite.

So precious to me are the
fourscore words That each letter changes
into a bar of gold!

When the yellow bird’s note was almost stopped; And half
formed the green plum’s fruit; Sitting and grieving that spring things were over,
I rose and entered the Eastern Garden’s gate.

I carried my cup and was
dully drinking alone: Suddenly I
heard a knocking sound at the door.

Dwelling secluded, I was
glad that someone had come; How much the more,
when I saw it was Ch’ēn Hsiung!

At ease and leisure,--all day
we talked; Crowding and jostling,--the
feelings of many years.

How great a
thing is a single
cup of wine!

For it makes us
tell the story of
our whole lives.

When I was almost forty
I had a daughter whose name
was Golden Bells.

Now it is just a year since
she was born; She is learning to
sit and cannot yet talk.

Ashamed,--to find that I have
not a sage’s heart: I cannot resist
vulgar thoughts and feelings.

Henceforward I am
tied to things outside myself: My only reward,--the
pleasure I am getting now.

If I am spared the grief of
her dying young, Then I shall have the
trouble of getting her married.

My plan for retiring
and going back to the hills Must now
be postponed for fifteen years!

Ruined and ill,--a man
of two score; Pretty and guileless,--a
girl of three.

Not a boy,--but, still better
than nothing: To soothe one’s feeling,--from
time to time a kiss!

There came a day,--they suddenly
took her from me; Her soul’s shadow
wandered I know not where.

At last, by thinking of the time
before she was born, By thought and reason
I drove the pain away.

Since my heart forgot her, many
days have passed And three times winter
has changed to spring.

This morning, for a little,
the old grief came back, Because, in the
road, I met her foster-nurse.

Sad, sad--lean with long illness;
Monotonous, monotonous--days
and nights pass.

The summer trees have clad
themselves in shade; The autumn “lan” already
houses the dew.

The eggs that lay in the
nest when I took to bed Have changed into little
birds and flown away.

The worm that then lay hidden
in its hole Has hatched into a cricket
sitting on the tree.

The Four Seasons go on for
ever and ever: In all Nature nothing stops
to rest Even for a moment.

Only the sick
man’s heart Deep down still aches
as of old!

Deep the waters of the Black Pool,
coloured like ink; They say a Holy Dragon
lives there, whom men have never seen.

Beside the Pool they have built a shrine; the authorities
have established a ritual; A dragon by itself remains
a dragon, but men can make it a god.

Prosperity and disaster, rain and drought,
plagues and pestilences-- By the village people were all
regarded as the Sacred Dragon’s doing.

They all made offerings of sucking-pig and poured
libations of wine; The morning prayers and evening gifts
depended on a “medium’s” advice When the dragon comes, ah!

The wind stirs
and sighs Paper
money thrown, ah!

Silk
umbrellas
waved.

When the
dragon goes,
ah!

The
wind
also--still.

The cups
and vessels
are cold.

Meats lie stacked on the rocks
of the Pool’s shore; Wine flows on the grass
in front of the shrine.

I do not know, of all those offerings,
how much the Dragon eats; But the mice of the woods and the foxes
of the hills are continually drunk and sated.

Why are
the foxes
so lucky?

What have the sucking-pigs done,
That year by year _they_ should be killed,
merely to glut the foxes?

That the foxes are robbing the Sacred
Dragon and eating His sucking-pig, Beneath the nine-fold depths
of His pool, does He know or not?

There came an officer
knocking by night at my door-- In a
loud voice demanding grain-tribute.

My house-servants dared not wait till
the morning, But brought candles
and set them on the barn-floor.

Passed through the sieve,
clean-washed as pearls, A whole cart-load, thirty
bushels of grain.

But still they cry that it is
not paid in full: With whips and curses
they goad my servants and boys.

Once, in error, I entered
public life; I am inwardly ashamed
that my talents were not sufficient.

In succession I
occupied four official posts; For
doing nothing,--ten years’ salary!

Often have I heard that
saying of ancient men That “good and ill
follow in an endless chain.

” And to-day it ought to set
my heart at rest To return to others
the corn in my great barn.

In the land of Tao-chou Many
of the people are dwarfs; The tallest of them
never grow to more than three feet.

They were sold in the market as dwarf
slaves and yearly sent to Court; Described as “an offering
of natural products from the land of Tao-chou.

” A strange “offering of natural products”;
I never heard of one yet That parted men from
those they loved, never to meet again!

Old men--weeping for their
grandsons; mothers for
their children!

One day--Yang Ch’ēng came to govern
the land; He refused to send up dwarf slaves
in spite of incessant mandates.

” The Emperor’s heart was deeply
moved and he sealed and sent a scroll “The yearly tribute
of dwarfish slaves is henceforth annulled.

” The people of
Tao-chou, Old ones and young ones,
how great their joy!

Father with son and brother with
brother henceforward kept together; From that day
for ever more they lived as free men.

The people
of Tao-chou Still enjoy
this gift.

And even now when
they speak of the Governor
Tears start to their eyes.

And lest their children and their children’s children
should forget the Governor’s name, When boys are born the
syllable “Yang” is often used in their forename.

Of cord and cassia-wood
is the harp compounded: Within it
lie ancient melodies.

Ancient melodies--weak and
savourless, Not appealing
to present men’s taste.

Light and colour are
faded from the jade stops: Dust has
covered the rose-red strings.

Decay and ruin came
to it long ago, But the sound that
is left is still cold and clear.

I do not refuse to play
it, if you want me to: But even if
I play, people will not listen.

How did it come
to be neglected
so?

Because of
the Ch’iang flute and the
Ch’in flageolet.

The singers have hushed their
notes of clear song: The red sleeves of the
dancers are motionless.

Hugging his lute, the old
harper of Chao Rocks and sways as he
touches the five chords.

The loud notes swell and
scatter abroad: “Sa, sa,” like
wind blowing the rain.

The soft notes dying
almost to nothing: “Ch’ieh, ch’ieh,” like the
voice of ghosts talking.

Now as glad as the magpie’s
lucky song: Again bitter as the
gibbon’s ominous cry.

And those who sit and listen
to the tune he plays Of soul and body
lose the mastery.

And those who pass that way as
he plays the tune, Suddenly stop
and cannot raise their feet.

Alas, alas that the
ears of common men Should love the
modern and not love the old.

Thus it is that the harp in
the green window Day by day is
covered deeper with dust.

In the Royal City
spring is almost over: Tinkle, tinkle--the
coaches and horsemen pass.

We tell each other “This is the
peony season”: And follow with the
crowd that goes to the Flower Market.

“Cheap and dear--no uniform price:
The cost of the plant depends on the
number of blossoms.

For the fine flower,--a hundred
pieces of damask: For the cheap
flower,--five bits of silk.

Above is spread an awning
to protect them: Around is woven a
wattle-fence to screen them.

If you sprinkle water and
cover the roots with mud, When they are transplanted,
they will not lose their beauty.

” Each household thoughtlessly
follows the custom, Man by man, no
one realizing.

There happened to be
an old farm labourer Who
came by chance that way.

He bowed his head and sighed
a deep sigh: But this sigh
nobody understood.

He was thinking, “A cluster
of deep-red flowers Would pay the taxes of
ten poor houses.

” Tartars
led in chains, Tartars
led in chains!

Their ears pierced, their
faces bruised--they are driven
into the land of Ch’in.

The Son of Heaven
took pity on them and would not
have them slain.

A petty officer in a yellow coat
took down their names and surnames: They were led from the city
of Ch’ang-an under escort of an armed guard.

Their bodies were covered
with the wounds of arrows, their
bones stood out from their cheeks.

They had grown so
weak they could only march
a single stage a day.

In the morning they must satisfy hunger
and thirst with neither plate nor cup: At night they must lie in
their dirt and rags on beds that stank with filth.

Suddenly they came to the
Yangtze River and remembered the
waters of Chiao.

With lowered hands
and levelled voices they sobbed
a muffled song.

Then one Tartar lifted up his
voice and spoke to the other Tartars, “_Your_ sorrows are none
at all compared with _my_ sorrows.

” Those that were with him in the same
band asked to hear his tale: As he tried to speak
the words were choked by anger.

He told them
“I was born and bred in the town
of Liang-yüan.

In the frontier wars
of Ta-li I fell into
the Tartars’ hands.

Since the days the Tartars took me alive
forty years have passed: They put me into a coat
of skins tied with a belt of rope.

Only on the first
of the first month might I wear
my Chinese dress.

As I put on my
coat and arranged my cap,
how fast the tears flowed!

I made in my heart a secret vow I
would find a way home: I hid my plan from my Tartar wife
and the children she had borne me in the land.

I thought to myself, ‘It is well for me that
my limbs are still strong,’ And yet, being old, in my heart I
feared I should never live to return.

The Tartar chieftains shoot so well that the
birds are afraid to fly: From the risk of their arrows I
escaped alive and fled swiftly home.

Hiding all day and walking all night,
I crossed the Great Desert: Where clouds are dark and the moon
black and the sands eddy in the wind.

But the moving horsemen did not hear
that I spoke the Han tongue: Their Captain took me for
a Tartar born and had me bound in chains.

They are sending me away to the south-east,
to a low and swampy land: No one now will take pity
on me: resistance is all in vain.

Thinking of this, my voice chokes and I
ask of Heaven above, Was I spared from death only
to spend the rest of my years in sorrow?

My native village of Liang-yüan I
shall not see again: My wife and children in the Tartars’
land I have fruitlessly deserted.

When I fell among Tartars and was taken prisoner,
I pined for the land of Han: Now that I am back in the land
of Han, they have turned me into a Tartar.

Had I but known what
my fate would be, I would not
have started home!

For the two lands, so
wide apart, are alike in
the sorrow they bring.

Tartar
prisoners
in chains!

Of all the sorrows
of all the prisoners mine
is the hardest to bear!

Never in the world has so great a wrong
befallen the lot of man,-- A Han heart and a Han
tongue set in the body of a Turk.

” A
Government-bull yoked to
a Government-cart!

Moored by the bank
of Ch’an River, a barge
loaded with gravel.

A single load
of gravel, How many
pounds it weighs!

Carrying at
dawn, carrying at dusk, what
is it all for?

They are carrying
it towards the Five Gates, To
the West of the Main Road.

Under the shadow
of green laurels they are
making a gravel-drive.

For yesterday arrove, newly appointed, The
Assistant Chancellor of the Realm, And was terribly afraid
that the wet and mud Would dirty his horse’s hoofs.

The Chancellor’s horse’s hoofs Stepped on the
gravel and remained perfectly clean; But the bull employed
in dragging the cart Was almost sweating blood.

The Assistant Chancellor’s
business Is to “save men, govern the country
And harmonize Yin and Yang.

” Whether the bull’s neck
is sore Need not trouble
him at all.

There was once a man who dreamt
he went to Heaven: His dream-body
soared aloft through space.

He rode on the back of
a white-plumed crane, And was led on his flight
by two crimson banners.

Whirring of wings
and flapping of
coat tails!

Jade bells
suddenly
all a-tinkle!

Half way to Heaven, he
looked down beneath him, Down on the dark
turmoil of the World.

Gradually he
lost the place of his native town; Mountains
and water--nothing else distinct.

The Eastern Ocean--a single
strip of white: The Hills of China,--five
specks of green.

Gliding past him a host of fairies
swept In long procession to the Palace
of the Jade City.

They take him to the presence of
the Mighty Jade Emperor: He bows his
head and proffers loyal homage.

The Emperor says: “We see
you have fairy talents: Be of good
heart and do not slight yourself.

We shall send to fetch you in
fifteen years And give you a place in the
Courtyard of Immortality.

” Twice bowing, he acknowledged
the gracious words: Then woke from sleep, full
of wonder and joy.

He hid his secret and dared
not tell it abroad: But vowed a vow
he would live in a cave of rock.

From love and affection he severed
kith and kin: From his eating and drinking he
omitted savoury and spice.

His morning meal was a
dish of coral-dust: At night he sipped an
essence of dewy mists.

In the empty mountains he
lived for thirty years Daily watching for
the Heavenly Coach to come.

The time of appointment
was already long past, But
of wings and coach-bells--still no sound.

His teeth and hair daily withered
and decayed: His ears and eyes gradually
lost their keenness.

One morning he suffered the Common
Change And his body was one with the
dust and dirt of the hill.

Gods
and
fairies!

If indeed such things there
be, Their ways are beyond the
striving of mortal men.

” Though you sweat and
toil, what shall your
trouble bring?

You will only
shorten the five-score
years of your span.

Sad, alas, the
man who dreamt of
Fairies!

For a single
dream spoiled his
whole life.

Boundless,
the great
sea.

Straight down,--no
bottom: sideways,--no
border.

Of cloudy waves and misty billows
down in the uttermost depths Men have fabled,
in the midst there stand three sacred hills.

On the
hills, thick growing,--herbs that banish
Death.

Wings grow on those who
eat them and they turn into
heavenly “hsien.

” The Lord of Ch’in and Wu of Han
believed in these stories: And magic-workers year by
year were sent to gather the herbs.

The Blessed Islands,
now and of old, what
but an empty tale?

The misty waters
spread before them and they knew
not where to seek.

Dauntless,
the mighty
wind.

Their eyes search but
cannot see the shores of
the Blessed Islands.

They cannot find the Blessed Isles and yet
they dare not return: Youths and maidens that began
the quest grew grey on board the boat.

Do you not see The graves
on the top of Black Horse Hill
and the tombs at Mo-ling?

What is left but the
sighing wind blowing in the
tangled grasses?

The Two Red Towers
North and south rise facing
each other.

I beg to
ask, to whom do
they belong?

The two Princes blew on their flutes and
drew down fairies from the sky, Who carried them off through the
Five Clouds, soaring away to Heaven.

Their halls and houses, that they
could not take with them, Were turned into Temples
planted in the Dust of the World.

In the tiring-rooms and dancers’ towers all
is silent and still; Only the willows like dancers’
arms, and the pond like a mirror.

When the flowers are falling at yellow
twilight, when things are sad and hushed, One does not hear
songs and flutes, but only chimes and bells.

The Imperial Patent on the
Temple doors is written in letters of gold; For nuns’ quarters
and monks’ cells ample space is allowed.

For green moss and bright moonlight--plenty of room
provided; In a hovel opposite is a sick
man who has hardly room to lie down.

I remember once when at P’ing-yang they were
building a great man’s house How it swallowed up the housing
space of thousands of ordinary men.

The Immortals are leaving us, two
by two, and their houses are turned into Temples; I begin to
fear that the whole world will become a vast convent.

An old charcoal-seller Cutting wood
and burning charcoal in the forests
of the Southern Mountain.

His face, stained with dust
and ashes, has turned to
the colour of smoke.

The hair on his temples
is streaked with gray: his ten
fingers are black.

The money he gets
by selling charcoal, how
far does it go?

It is just enough
to clothe his limbs and put food
in his mouth.

Although, alas, the
coat on his back is a coat
without lining.

He hopes for the coming
of cold weather, to send up
the price of coal!

Last night, outside the city,--a whole
foot of snow; At dawn he drives the charcoal
wagon along the frozen ruts.

Oxen,--weary; man,--hungry: the sun, already
high; Outside the Gate, to the south of the Market,
at last they stop in the mud.

Suddenly,
a pair of prancing
horsemen.

Who
can it be
coming?

A public official
in a yellow coat and a
boy in a white shirt.

In their hands they hold a written warrant:
on their tongues--the words of an order; They turn back the wagon and curse
the oxen, leading them off to the north.

A whole wagon
of charcoal, More than
a thousand pieces!

If officials choose
to take it away, the woodman
may not complain.

Half a piece of red silk and a single yard
of damask, The Courtiers have tied to the oxen’s collar,
as the price of a wagon of coal!

I was going to the City to
sell the herbs I had plucked; On the way I rested
by some trees at the Blue Gate.

Along the road there came
a horseman riding; Whose face was pale
with a strange look of dread.

Friends and relations, waiting
to say good-bye, Pressed at his side, but
he did not dare to pause.

I, in wonder, asked the
people about me Who he was and
what had happened to him.

They told me this was a
Privy Councillor Whose grave duties were
like the pivot of State.

His food allowance was ten
thousand cash; Three times a day the
Emperor came to his house.

Yesterday he was called to
a meeting of Heroes: To-day he is banished
to the country of Yai-chou.

So always, the Counsellors
of Kings; Favour and ruin changed
between dawn and dusk!

Green, green,--the grass of the Eastern
Suburb; And amid the grass, a
road that leads to the hills.

Resting in peace among the
white clouds, At last he has made
a “coup” that cannot fail!

At Hsin-fēng an old man--four-score and
eight; The hair on his head and the hair of
his eyebrows--white as the new snow.

Leaning on the shoulders of his great-grandchildren,
he walks in front of the Inn; With his left arm he leans
on their shoulders; his right arm is broken.

I asked the old man how many years
had passed since he broke his arm; I also asked the cause of the
injury, how and why it happened?

The old man said he was born and reared
in the District of Hsin-fēng; At the time of his
birth--a wise reign; no wars or discords.

“Often I listened in the Pear-Tree Garden to
the sound of flute and song; Naught I knew of banner and
lance; nothing of arrow or bow.

Then came the wars of T’ien-pao
and the great levy of men; Of three men
in each house,--one man was taken.

And those to
whom the lot fell, where
were they taken to?

When the great army waded across, the
water seethed like a cauldron; When barely ten had entered
the water, two or three were dead.

To the north of my village,
to the south of my village the sound of
weeping and wailing.

Children parting
from fathers and mothers; husbands
parting from wives.

Everyone says that in expeditions
against the Min tribes Of a million men who
are sent out, not one returns.

I, that am old, was then
twenty-four; My name and fore-name were written down
in the rolls of the Board of War.

In the depth of the night not daring
to let any one know I secretly took a huge
stone and dashed it against my arm.

Bones broken and sinews wounded
could not fail to hurt; I was ready enough to
bear pain, if only I got back home.

My arm--broken ever
since; it was sixty
years ago.

One limb, although
destroyed,--whole body
safe!

But even now on winter
nights when the wind and rain blow From evening on till day’s
dawn I cannot sleep for pain.

Not sleeping for pain Is a
small thing to bear, Compared with the joy of being
alive when all the rest are dead.

For otherwise, years ago, at the ford
of Lu River My body would have died and my soul
hovered by the bones that no one gathered.

Over the graves of
ten thousand soldiers, mournfully
hovering.

” So
the old man
spoke.

And I bid you listen to his words Have you not
heard That the Prime Minister of K’ai-yüan, Sung K’ai-fu, Did not reward frontier exploits,
lest a spirit of aggression should prevail?

And have you not heard That the Prime Minister
of T’ien-Pao, Yang Kuo-chung Desiring to win imperial
favour, started a frontier war?

But long before he could win the
war, people had lost their temper; Ask the man with
the broken arm in the village of Hsin-fēng?

White billows and huge waves block the river
crossing; Wherever I go, danger and difficulty;
whatever I do, failure.

Just as in my worldly career I
wander and lose the road, So when I come to the river
crossing, I am stopped by contrary winds.

Of fishes and prawns sodden in the rain
the smell fills my nostrils; With the stings of insects that
come with the fog, my whole body is sore.

I am growing
old, time flies, and my short
span runs out.

While I sit in
a boat at Chiu-k’ou,
wasting ten days!

I take your poems in my hand and
read them beside the candle; The poems are finished:
the candle is low: dawn not yet come.

With sore eyes by the guttering candle
still I sit in the dark, Listening to waves that, driven
by the wind, strike the prow of the ship.

I have still to travel in my solitary
boat three or four leagues-- By misty waters and rainy
sands, while the yellow dusk thickens.

The forest trees are leafless and withered,--after
the mountain rain; The roofs of the houses are hidden
low among the river mists.

The horses, fed on water grass, are
too weak to carry their load; The cottage walls of wattle
and thatch let the wind blow on one’s bed.

In the distance I see red-wheeled coaches
driving from the town-gate; They have taken the trouble, these civil
people, to meet their new Prefect!

There is no one among men that
has not a special failing: And my failing
consists in writing verses.

I have broken away from
the thousand ties of life: But this
infirmity still remains behind.

And often, when I have finished
a new poem, Alone I climb the road
to the Eastern Rock.

I lean my body on the
banks of white stone: I pull down with my
hands a green cassia branch.

My mad singing startles
the valleys and hills: The apes and
birds all come to peep.

Fearing to become a
laughing-stock to the world, I choose a place that is
unfrequented by men.

At Nine Rivers, in the tenth year,
in winter,--heavy snow; The river-water covered with ice
and the forests broken with their load.

The birds of the air, hungry and
cold, went flying east and west; And with them flew a migrant
“yen,” loudly clamouring for food.

Among the snow it pecked for grass; and rested
on the surface of the ice: It tried with its wings to scale
the sky; but its tired flight was slow.

The boys of the river spread a net
and caught the bird as it flew; They took it in their hands
to the city-market and sold it there alive.

I that was once a man of the
North am now an exile here: Bird and man, in their
different kind, are each strangers in the south.

And because the sight of an exiled bird
wounded an exile’s heart, I paid your ransom and set
you free, and you flew away to the clouds.

Yen, Yen, flying
to the clouds, tell me, whither
shall you go?

The official army and the rebel army
have grown old in their opposite trenches; The soldier’s rations
have grown so small, they’ll be glad of even you.

The brave boys, in their hungry plight, will shoot
you and eat your flesh; They will pluck from your body those
long feathers and make them into arrow-wings!

_You_, so bravely
splashing reds
and blues!

Just when _I_
am getting wrinkled
and old.

Why should you waste the moments
of inspiration Tracing the withered
limbs of a sick man?

Tall, tall is the Palace
of Ch’i-lin; But my deeds have not been
frescoed on its walls.

Minutely limned on a
foot of painting silk-- What can I do
with a portrait such as _that_?

Yesterday I heard
that such-a-one was gone; This morning they
tell me that so-and-so is dead.

Of friends and acquaintances
more than two-thirds Have suffered change and
passed to the Land of Ghosts.

Those that are gone I shall not
see again; They, alas, are for
ever finished and done.

Those that are
left,--where are
they now?

They are all scattered,--a
thousand miles
away.

Those I have known and loved
through all my life, On the fingers of
my hand--how many do I count?

Longing for each other we are
all grown gray; Through the Fleeting World rolled
like a wave in the stream.

Alas that the feasts and
frolics of old days Have withered and
vanished, bringing us to this!

When shall we meet and
drink a cup of wine And laughing gaze
into each other’s eyes?

Up and up,
the Incense-burner
Peak!

In my heart
is stored what my eyes
and ears perceived.

All the year--detained by
official business; To-day at last
I got a chance to go.

Grasping the creepers, I
clung to dangerous rocks; My hands
and feet--weary with groping for hold.

There came with me
three or four friends, But two friends dared
not go further.

At last we reached the topmost
crest of the Peak; My eyes were blinded,
my soul rocked and reeled.

The chasm beneath
me--ten thousand feet; The ground I
stood on, only a foot wide.

If you have not exhausted the scope
of seeing and hearing, How can you realize
the wideness of the world?

The waters of the River
looked narrow as a ribbon, P’ēn Castle
smaller than a man’s fist.

How it clings,
the dust of the world’s
halter!

It chokes my
limbs: I cannot
shake it away.

Thinking of retirement,
I heaved an envious sigh, Then, with lowered
head, came back to the Ants’ Nest.

My new Province is a
land of bamboo-groves: Their shoots in spring
fill the valleys and hills.

The mountain woodman cuts an
armful of them And brings them down to
sell at the early market.

Things are cheap in proportion
as they are common; For two farthings,
I buy a whole bundle.

I put the shoots in a
great earthen pot And heat them up
along with boiling rice.

The purple nodules
broken,--like an old brocade; The
white skin opened,--like new pearls.

Now every day
I eat them recklessly; For a
long time I have not touched meat.

Sent as a present
from Annam-- A red
cockatoo.

Coloured like the peach-tree
blossom, Speaking with
the speech of men.

And they did to it
what is always done To the
learned and eloquent.

They took a
cage with stout bars And shut
it up inside.

After lunch--one short
nap: On waking up--two
cups of tea.

Raising my head, I
see the sun’s light Once again
slanting to the south-west.

Those who are happy regret
the shortness of the day; Those who are sad
tire of the year’s sloth.

But those whose hearts are devoid
of joy or sadness Just go on living,
regardless of “short” or “long.

” Above, a mountain ten
thousand feet high: Below, a river
a thousand fathoms deep.

A strip of green, walled by
cliffs of stone: Wide enough for the
passage of a single reed.

Long before night the
walls are black with dusk; Without
wind white waves rise.

The big rocks are like
a flat sword: The little rocks
resemble ivory tusks.

We are stuck
fast and cannot
move a step.

How much the
less, three hundred
miles?

Frail and slender, the twisted-bamboo
rope: Weak, the dangerous hold
of the towers’ feet.

A single slip--the whole
convoy lost: And _my_ life
hangs on _this_ thread!

I have heard a saying “He that has
an upright heart Shall walk scathless through
the lands of Man and Mo.

” How can I believe that
since the world began In every
shipwreck none have drowned but rogues?

And how can I, born
in evil days And fresh from failure,
ask a kindness of Fate?

Often I fear that
these un-talented limbs Will be laid
at last in an un-named grave!

Suddenly, suddenly,--bearing
a stricken heart I left the gates,
with nothing to comfort me.

Henceforward,--relegated to deep seclusion In a bottomless
gorge, flanked by precipitous mountains, Five months on end the passage of boats
is stopped By the piled billows that toss and leap like colts.

The inhabitants of Pa
resemble wild apes; Fierce and lusty,
they fill the mountains and prairies.

Among such as these I cannot hope
for friends And am pleased with anyone who
is even remotely human!

I took money and bought
flowering trees And planted them out on
the bank to the east of the Keep.

I simply bought whatever
had most blooms, Not caring whether
peach, apricot, or plum.

A hundred fruits, all mixed
up together; A thousand branches,
flowering in due rotation.

Each has its season coming
early or late; But to all alike the
fertile soil is kind.

The red flowers hang like
a heavy mist; The white flowers gleam
like a fall of snow.

The wandering bees cannot
bear to leave them; The sweet birds also
come there to roost.

In front there flows an ever-running
stream; Beneath there is built a little
flat terrace.

Sometimes I sweep the flagstones
of the terrace; Sometimes, in the wind,
I raise my cup and drink.

The flower-branches screen my head
from the sun; The flower-buds fall
down into my lap.

Alone drinking, alone singing
my songs I do not notice that the
moon is level with the steps.

The people of Pa do not
care for flowers; All the spring
no one has come to look.

But their Governor General,
alone with his cup of wine Sits till evening
and will not move from the place!

My niece, who is six
years old, is called “Miss Tortoise”; My
daughter of three,--little “Summer Dress.

” One is beginning to learn
to joke and talk; The other can already
recite poems and songs.

At morning they play clinging
about my feet; At night they sleep
pillowed against my dress.

Why, children, did you reach
the world so late, Coming to me
just when my years are spent?

Young things draw our
feelings to them; Old people
easily give their hearts.

The sweetest vintage
at last turns sour; The full
moon in the end begins to wane.

And so with men the bonds of
love and affection Soon may change to a
load of sorrow and care.

But all the world is bound
by love’s ties; Why did I think that I
alone should escape?

Trees growing--right in front of
my window; The trees are high
and the leaves grow thick.

the distant mountain
view Obscured by this, dimly
shows between.

One morning I took
knife and axe; With my own hand I
lopped the branches off.

Ten thousand leaves fall about
my head; A thousand hills came
before my eyes.

Suddenly, as when clouds or mists break And straight through,
the blue sky appears; Again, like the face of a friend one has
loved Seen at last after an age of parting.

First there came a gentle
wind blowing; One by one the birds
flew back to the tree.

To ease my mind I gazed to
the South East; As my eyes wandered,
my thoughts went far away.

Of men there is none that has
not some preference; Of things there is
none but mixes good with ill.

It was not that I did
not love the tender branches; But
better still,--to see the green hills!

I have been ill so long that
I do not count the days; At the southern
window, evening--and again evening.

Sadly chirping in the
grasses under my eaves The winter
sparrows morning and evening sing.

By an effort I rise and lean
heavily on my bed; Tottering I
step towards the door of the courtyard.

By chance I meet a friend who
is coming to see me; Just as if
I had gone specially to meet him.

They took my couch and placed it in
the setting sun; They spread my rug and
I leaned on the balcony-pillar.

Tranquil talk was better than
any medicine; Gradually the
feelings came back to my numbed heart.

Little sleeping and much
grieving,--the traveller Rises at midnight
and looks back towards home.

The sands are bright with moonlight
that joins the shores; The sail is white with
dew that has covered the boat.

Nearing the sea, the river grows
broader and broader: Approaching autumn,--the
nights longer and longer.

Thirty times we have
slept amid mists and waves, And
still we have not reached Hang-chow!

I grew up
at Jung-yang; I was still
young when I left.

On and on,--forty years passed
Till again I stayed for
the night at Jung-yang.

When I went away, I
was only eleven or twelve;
This year I am turned fifty-six.

Yet thinking back to the
times of my childish games, Whole and undimmed,
still they rise before me.

The old houses have all
disappeared; Down in the village
none of my people are left.

It is not only that streets
and buildings have changed; But steep is level
and level changed to steep!

Alone unchanged, the waters
of Ch’iu and Yu Passionless,--flow
in their old course.

While on the road to his new province, Hang-chow, in 822,
he sends a silver spoon to his niece A-kuei, whom he had been obliged to leave
behind with her nurse, old Mrs.

Little girls ought to
be daintily
fed: Mrs.

Ts’ao,
please see to
this!

That’s why I’ve packed and sent a
silver spoon; You will think of me and
eat up your food nicely!

Long ago to a white-haired
gentleman You made the present
of a black gauze hat.

The gauze hat still sits on
my head; But you already are gone
to the Nether Springs.

The thing is old, but still
fit to wear; The man is gone and
will never be seen again.

Out on the hill the moon is
shining to-night And the trees on your tomb
are swayed by the autumn wind.

That so many of the
poor should suffer from cold what can
we do to prevent?

To bring warmth to
a single body
is not much use.

I wish I had a big rug
ten thousand feet long, Which at one time could cover
up every inch of the City.

Our party scattered at yellow dusk
and I came home to bed; I woke at midnight and went for
a walk, leaning heavily on a friend.

As I lay on my pillow my vinous
complexion, soothed by sleep, grew sober; In front of the tower the ocean
moon, accompanying the tide, had risen.

The swallows, about to return to the beams,
went back to roost again; The candle at my window, just
going out, suddenly revived its light.

All the time till dawn came, still my thoughts
were muddled; And in my ears something sounded
like the music of flutes and strings.

_Then_ on the shore,--building
sand-pagodas; _Now_, at Court, covered with
tinkling jade.

This and that,--equally childish
games, Things whose substance passes in
a moment of time!

While the hands are busy, the
heart cannot understand; When there are no
Scriptures, then Doctrine is sound.

Even should one zealously
strive to learn the Way, That very striving
will make one’s error more.

All the morning I have
lain perversely in bed; Now at
dusk I rise with many yawns.

My warm stove is quick to
get ablaze; At the cold mirror I
am slow in doing my hair.

With melted snow I
boil fragrant tea; Seasoned with
curds I cook a milk-pudding.

At my sloth and greed there
is no one but me to laugh; My cheerful vigour
none but myself knows.

The taste of my wine is mild and
works no poison; The notes of my harp
are soft and bring no sadness.

To the Three Joys in the book
of Mencius I have added the
fourth of playing with my baby-boy.

I break up cypress
and make a book-box; The box
well-made,--and the cypress-wood tough.

In it shall be
kept what author’s
works?

The inscription
says PO
LO-T’IEN.

All my life has been spent
in writing books, From when I was young
till now that I am old.

First and last,--seventy
whole volumes; Big and little,--three
thousand themes.

All I can do is to divide them
among my daughters To be left by them
to give to my grandchildren.

Between thirty and forty, one is
distracted by the Five Lusts; Between seventy and eighty,
one is a prey to a hundred diseases.

But from fifty to
sixty one is free from all ills;
Calm and still--the heart enjoys rest.

I have put behind me Love and Greed; I
have done with Profit and Fame; I am still short of illness
and decay and far from decrepit age.

Strength of limb I still possess to
seek the rivers and hills; Still my heart has spirit
enough to listen to flutes and strings.

At leisure I open new
wine and taste several cups; Drunken I recall
old poems and sing a whole volume.

” Hundreds of houses,
thousands of houses,--like
a chess-board.

The twelve streets
like a field planted with
rows of cabbage.

In the distance perceptible, dim,
dim--the fire of approaching dawn; And a single row
of stars lying to the west of the Five Gates.

Mounting on high I begin to realize
the smallness of Man’s Domain; Gazing into distance I begin
to know the vanity of the Carnal World.

I turn my head and hurry
home--back to the Court and Market, A single
grain of rice falling--into the Great Barn.

Two top-knots not
yet plaited into
one.

Of thirty
years--just beyond
half.

You who are really a lady
of silks and satins Are now become my
hill and stream companion!

At the spring fountains together
we splash and play: On the lovely trees
together we climb and sport.

Her cheeks grow rosy, as
she quickens her sleeve-dancing: Her brows grow sad,
as she slows her song’s tune.

Don’t go singing the Song of
the Willow Branches, When there’s no one
here with a heart for you to break!

At night you came and took my hand and we wandered
together in my dream; When I woke in the morning there was no one to
stop the tears that fell on my handkerchief.

On the banks of the Ch’ang my aged body
three times has passed through sickness; At Hsien-yang to the grasses
on your grave eight times has autumn come.

You lie buried beneath
the springs and your bones are
mingled with the clay.

I--lodging in the
world of men; my hair
white as snow.

A-wei and Han-lang both followed in
their turn; Among the shadows of the Terrace
of Night did you know them or not?

At night, in my
dream, I stoutly climbed
a mountain.

Going out alone
with my staff of
holly-wood.

A thousand crags, a hundred hundred valleys-- In
my dream-journey none were unexplored And all the while my feet never grew tired
And my step was as strong as in my young days.

Can it be that when the
mind travels backward The body also
returns to its old state?

And can it be, as between
body and soul, That the body may
languish, while the soul is still strong?

Soul and body--both are
vanities: Dreaming and waking--both
alike unreal.

In the day my feet are palsied
and tottering; In the night my steps
go striding over the hills.

As day and night are
divided in equal parts-- Between the
two, I _get_ as much as I _lose_.

Congratulating himself on
the comforts of his life after his
retirement from office.

Lined coat, warm cap and easy felt slippers,
In the little tower, at the low window, sitting
over the sunken brazier.

Body at rest,
heart at peace; no need to
rise early.

I wonder if the courtiers
at the Western Capital know
of these things, or not?

No new poems his
brush will trace: Even
his fame is dead.

His old poems are deep
in dust At the bottom of
boxes and cupboards.

Once lately, when someone was singing,
Suddenly I heard a verse-- Before I had time
to catch the words A pain had stabbed my heart.

“Those who speak know
nothing; Those who know
are silent.

” These words, as
I am told, Were spoken
by Lao-tzŭ.

If we are to believe that Lao-tzŭ
Was himself _one who knew_, How comes it that he wrote
a book Of five thousand words?

Chuang-tzŭ levels all things
And reduces them to
the same Monad.

But _I_ say that
even in their sameness
Difference may be found.

A traveller
came from across the seas Telling
of strange sights.

“In a deep fold of the
sea-hills I saw a terrace
and tower.

In the midst there
stood a Fairy Temple With
one niche empty.

They all told me
this was waiting
For Lo-t’ien to come.

” Traveller, I have studied the Empty Gate;
I am no disciple of Fairies The story you
have just told Is nothing but an idle tale.

The hills of
ocean shall never
be Lo-t’ien’s home.

When I leave the earth
it will be to go To the Heaven
of Bliss Fulfilled.

They have put my bed beside the
unpainted screen; They have shifted my stove
in front of the blue curtain.

I listen to my grandchildren,
reading me a book; I watch the servants,
heating up my soup.

With rapid pencil I answer
the poems of friends; I feel in my pockets
and pull out medicine-money.

When this superintendence of
trifling affairs is done, I lie back on my
pillows and sleep with my face to the South.

THE END CHISWICK
PRESS: PRINTED BY CHARLES
WHITTINGHAM AND CO.

TOOKS COURT,
CHANCERY
LANE, LONDON.

21, heading,      for
BIOGRAPHICAL    read
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL.

You, stand here at my
side, good Priapus--albeit from thieves
I've Nothing to fear.

Freely
pluck, whosoever
would eat.

--Hypocrites, those
are
the ones!

Tell me ye stones and
give me O glorious
palaces answer.

Speak O
ye streets but
one word.

Genius, art
thou
alive?

Yes, here within thy sanctified
walls there's a soul in each object,
ROMA eternal.

For me, only,
are all things
yet mute.

Who will then tell me in whispers
and where must I find just the window Where one day she'll
be glimpsed: creature who'll scorch me with love?

Can't I divine yet the paths through
which over and over To her and from her
I'll go, squandering valuable time?

Visiting churches and palaces, all
of the ruins and the pillars, I, a responsible
man, profit from making this trip.

With my business accomplished, ah,
then shall only one temple, AMOR's temple
alone, take the initiate in.

Rome, thou art a whole world, it
is true, and yet without love this World would not be the
world, Rome would cease to be Rome.

More than ever I
dreamed, I have found it: my
happy good fortune!

Cupid
sagaciously led
past those palazzos so fine.

He of course knows very well (and I
have also discovered) What, beneath tapestries
rich, gilded boudoirs conceal.

One may if one wishes
call him a blind, wanton boy--but I know you,
Clever Cupid, too well!

O,
incorruptible
god!

Here he provides me with ev'rything,
sees that I get what I call for; Each day that passes
he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.

--Isn't that
heaven
on earth?

Say, beautiful
Lady Borghese, What would you
give to me more?

Banquets and game
tables, operas, balls, promenades
down the Corso?

These but deprive
my sweet boy of his
most opportune times.

Finery,
haughtiness do
not entice me.

Does one not lift a
Gown of the finest brocade just as
one lifts common wool?

If she's to press in comfort a
lover against that soft bosom, Doesn't he want
her to be free from all brooches and chains?

Must not the jewelry, and then the
lace and the bustles and whalebone All of it come
off entire, if he's to learn how she feels?

I encounter
no troubles
like those.

Simple dress of rough homespun,
At but a lover's mere touch, tumbles
in folds to the floor.

Quickly he carries the girl as
she's clad in chemise of coarse linen-- Just as a nursemaid
might, playfully up to her bed.

Drapings of satin
are absent; the mattress is
quite unembroidered.

Large is this room where
the bed offers its
comfort for two.

Jupiter's welcome to more from his
Juno if he can get it; Let any mortal find
rest, softer, wherever he can.

We are content with Cupid's delights,
authentic and naked-- And with the exquisite
creak /crack of the bed as it rocks.

Ask whomever you will but you'll
never find out where I'm lodging, High society's
lords, ladies so groomed and refined.

"Tell me,
was Werther
authentic?

Did all of
that happen in
real life?

" "Lotte, oh where did she
live, Werther's only
true love?

" How many times have I cursed those
frivolous pages that broadcast Out among all
mankind passions I felt in my youth!

Were he my brother,
why then I 'd have murdered
poor Werther.

Yet his despondent
ghost couldn't have sought
worse revenge.

Do not, beloved, regret that
you yielded to me so quickly: I entertain
no base, insolent thoughts about you.

Arrows
of Cupid work divers
effects.

Some do but scratch us:
Slow and insidious these
poison our hearts over years.

Yet with a head freshly honed and
cunningly fledged, certain others Pierce to the marrow,
inflame rapidly there our blood.

When gods and goddesses in days of
heroes made love, then Lust followed look and desire,
with no delay, was indulged.

Surely you don't think the goddess of
love lost a moment reflecting When, in
Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye.

Nor did Luna delay about kissing
that beautiful dreamer-- Jealous Aurora had
else hastily wakened the lad.

At the loud banquet Hero regarded
Leander--then promptly Into dark waters he plunged,
ardently swam toward his love.

Today a proud Rome
claims to be queen
of the world.

We are
so pious,
we lovers.

Discreetly we worship
all powers, Hoping for favor from each
god and each goddess as well.

Therefore we gladly confess to singling
a special immortal And our devotions each
day pledging but solely to her.

Mischievous celebrants we at these
mysteries gay, and so solemn: Silence exactly
befits rites at which we're adepts.

Sweet
Opportunity,
that is her name.

You
should
meet her.

Often will she
turn up, ever
in a new form.

Daughter of Proteus
might well she be whom he sired
upon Thetis.

In metamorphoses
they've many a hero
deceived.

So now the daughter beguiles the naive
and bedazzles the foolish, Teases you while you're
asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.

Eagerly yields herself
up to the quick, to the active
man only.

He discovers
she's tame, playful and
tender and sweet.

Once she appeared to me, too:
a dark-skinned girl, tumbling Over her forehead
the hair down in waves heavy and dark.

Round about a delicate neck
curled short little ringlets; Up from the crown of
her head crinkled the unbraided hair.

When she dashed
by me I seized her,
mistaking her not.

Lovingly Kiss and
embrace she returned, knowing
and teaching me how.

O how
enraptured
I was!

Ah, say
now no
more.

It's
a
bygone.

But, O pigtails
of Rome, still I'm
entrammled in you.

Happily now on
classical soil I feel
inspiration.

Voices from present
and past speak here
evocatively.

Heeding ancient advice,
I leaf through the works of the Ancients
With an assiduous hand.

Daily
the pleasure's
renewed.

Throughout the night, in a different
way, I'm kept busy by Cupid-- If erudition
is halved, rapture is doubled that way.

Do then I not become wise when
I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's Form, and
the line of her hips stroke with my hand?

I acquire, As I reflect and compare,
my first understanding of marble, See with an eye
that feels, feel with a hand that sees.

While my beloved, I grant it,
deprives me of moments of daylight, She in
the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.

And we do more than just kiss; we
prosecute reasoned discussions (Should she succumb to
sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).

In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems
And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back, Fingertips counting
in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.

Air from deep in
her breast penetrates
mine and there burns.

Cupid, while stirring the flame in our
lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when For the triumvirs
he similar service performed.

"Can you be cruel
enough to sadden me thus with
reproaches?

Germans speak,
I suppose, bitterly
when they're in love.

Bear it I must when the
gossips bring forth accusations:
I'm guilty-- Or am I not?

But, alas, all
of my guilt was
with you.

Clothes that you've given bear witness for
envious neighbors That the poor widow no
more grieves for her husband alone.

Did you not thoughtlessly visit
me in the disguise of a cleric, Muffled all up in
a cloak, hair all rounded behind?

Who was
it chose that gray monk if
not you?

Well then a prelate
Now is my lover--Ah, who is
my prelate but you?

Never, incredible as it
may sound in this clerical city, Has any cleric
brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.

I was
sufficiently
poor, sad to say.

The
seducers Noted
it well.

Falconier
ogled me often
enough.

One of the pimps for Albani
with billets doux very impressive
Called me to Ostia once.

Quattro
Fontani
next time.

Who was
it did not appear
there?

Why, who but the very
same girl who Hated with all of her heart
stockings both violet and red.

For: 'In the end you
poor girls are the ones who are
sure to be cheated.

' So said my
father although--Mother was
not much impressed.

Father
was
right.

Here I stand in
the end being cheated
and scolded.

You don't believe
your own
words.

They're your
excuse to
escape.

Unworthy
of women are
men.

We, who carry your children
Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty
we bear you, too.

As for you men, when you've poured out your
potency in our embraces And your desires
dissipate, love with them passes away.

" These things expressed, and taking her child
from its chair, my beloved Presses it close to
her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.

I'm now so very ashamed of
myself for having permitted Gossip of neighbors
to spoil picture so eloquent.

For a short moment
a fire may burn darkly
while smoke swirls about it.

Water dashed on
the coals suddenly smothers
their glow.

Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes
those lowering vapors, Sends up a flame that anew
bright and more powerful gleams.

How very happy I am here
in Rome when I think of the bad days Far back
there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light.

Over my head there the heavens weighed
down so dismal and gloomy; Colorless, formless,
that world round this exhausted man lay.

Seeking myself in myself, an
unsatisfied spirit, I brooded, Spying out pathways
dark, lost in dreary reflection.

Phoebus the god
evokes forms, clear are
his colors by day.

Bright with the stars comes the evening,
ringing with songs that are tender, And the glow
of the moon, brighter than northern sun.

What
blessedness mortals
may know!

Am
I now
dreaming?

Or welcomes
Jupiter, Father, as guest--me,
to ambrosial halls?

See, I lie here
extending my arms
toward your knees.

I am praying:
Hospitality's god,
Jupiter Xenius!

Hear: How I am come
to this place I no longer
can say--I was Seized up by Hebe.

'Twas she
led to this sacred
hill.

Did you command her
a hero to seek and
deliver before you?

May be
she
erred.

Let her
mistake profit
me!

Does not Fortuna, your daughter,
when strewing her glorious presents, After the manner
of girls, yield to each passing whim?

You, O hospitable god, will by
no means now banish a stranger From your Olympian
heights back to the base earth again.

"--Forgive me, Jupiter, is not
Rome's Capitoline Hill second
Olympus to you?

Suffer me, Jupiter, here and
let Hermes guide me at last then Past Cestius'
Tomb gently to Orkus below.

When you were small, you say, neither did others consider
you f air, nor Even your mother find praise--and I believe it-- Till you grew
bigger, developing quietly over the years.

I Picture you
to myself as an
unusual child.

Also the blossoms on grapevines are wanting
in shape and in color, Although the fruit when it's
ripe pleases both mankind and gods.

Kindling autumnal fire in a
rustic, convivial fireplace (How the sticks crackle
and spew flames and glittering sparks!

) Strikes me
especially pleasant
this evening.

Then in the morning, officious,
she'll leave the bed of her lover, Rouse adroitly
the flames out from their ashes anew.

Cupid has lent to her above
others the gift of cajoling Up from the ashes
desire, just when slumber's begun.

Therefore, ye living, rejoice that
love keeps you warm for a while yet, Until cold
Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.

They are for you, O ye graces, just a
few leaves by a poet Onto your pure altar laid, buds
of the rose beside, Offered in confidence.

But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous
dreamer, Cythera sends glances Bathed in sweetest
desire--even in marble they're damp.

Thinking about his embrace and its
pleasures, she seems to be asking Shouldn't our
glorious son here at our side stand erect?

Can't you hear voices,
beloved, out on the Via
Flamina?

Reapers are now
going home, back from
harvesting grain.

They had journeyed to Rome from afar,
and here plaited for Ceres Wreaths which the Romans
today scorn to make for themselves.

Festivals no longer celebrate
Ceres, the nourishing goddess Who replaced acorns
of old, giving man golden wheat.

Let us commemorate her
then ourselves in festival private (Two constitute
a whole tribe, when they are two in love).

Have you by any chance heard how that
mystical, strange celebration Followed victorious
troops back from Eleusis to Rome?

Greeks were the ones who began it, and
only to Greeks they proclaimed it Even within Roman
walls: "Come to the sanctified night.

" Those who were not of the cult kept
their distance; neophytes trembled, Waiting in garments of
white, symbol of all that is pure.

Then the initiates must aimlessly
wander about through the eerie Circles of figures as
if pilgriming through their own dreams.

Snakes on the
ground were writhing
about.

Surely the gestures of murmuring
priests must contain some deep meaning-- Impatient
acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light.

Not until after many a testing
and trial did they discover What, within sacred
ring, secretive image concealed.

What was this mystery other
than this:   that Demeter, goddess, Once upon a
time had to a hero been kind.

It was to Jason, powerful king
of the Cretans, she granted Of her immortal
self hidden sweet parts to explore.

That made
the fortune
of Crete!

The marital bed of the
goddess Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy
her bounteous fields.

As for the rest of the world, it
languished away, while Ceres, Derelict of her true
task, dalliance offered in love.

--Now the initiate youths, having
followed this tale, all astonished, Turned and beckoned
their loves--love, do you comprehend?

See there the sacred
shade beneath that bushy-boughed
myrtle?

Our satisfaction
will there scarcely endanger
a world.

Cupid is always
a scoundrel, and if you believe
him he'll cheat you.

Here's what the hypocrite
said: "Trust me just once
more, this time.

I have the best of intentions toward
you who have now dedicated-- I recognize
it with thanks--life and writings to me.

Lo, I have followed you hither to
Rome, and I'd like to do something Here in this far away
land pleasing to such an old friend.

Every traveller I've ever
known has complained of poor treatment: He whom I
recommend treatment delicious receives.

How you've revered
the formative will of
those ancient artists!

In their own
ateliers often I
've visited them.

As for their works, why,
I formed those myself--now this time
I'm boasting Not.

Oh come now, admit
what I am saying
is true.

Where are your own
creations, your service to
me having slackened?

Where is
invention's
glow now?

Where is
the color
all gone?

Friend, do you
hope you can create
again?

--The school of the Ancients
Yet remains
open.

Its gates,
years have not closed
them to you.

I am eternally
young, and as teacher I still
love the young ones.

Wisdom that comes
with old age pleases
me not.

Listen here: Wasn't
antiquity young when those fortunate
Ancients were living?

Happy then be
your life, too: in it
antiquity lives.

Where will
you find a fit theme for
your song?

--It is
I must
provide it.

As for a style
truly grand, love can
alone give you that.

" All of these claims
that sophist
asserted.

Could I
contradict
him?

I am wont to
obey, when my
commander decrees.

Treacherous now he is keeping his word:
giving me themes for my poems While he is stealing
my time, potency, presence of mind.

Gazing into her eyes, holding hands, giving kisses,
exchanging Syllables sweet and those words lovers alone understand, Murmuring our
conversations we stutter in sweet oratory.

Hymns of such sort pass
away, wanting
prosodical tact.

Goddess of morning,
Aurora, as friend of my
muse I once knew you.

Has the unprincipled
god, Cupid, seduced
you now too?

So that these mornings you come as his
sweetheart, awakening me at His festive altar
again, where I must celebrate him?

Here on my breast flows her hair, an
abundance of curls, while her head rests, Pressing my
arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck.

Love in our hearts makes us one,
as the genuine need there stays constant; Only
returning desire knows oscillation or change.

Gently her hand presses
mine, now she opens her eyes and is
looking Into my own eyes.

Let my
thoughts rest
on your form!

Please
close your
eyes.

They're inebriation,
confusion, they rob me All too soon of
the joy quiet reflection affords.

Grand are the forms of
this body and nobly
positioned each member.

Had Ariadne
lain thus, Theseus
never had fled.

Only a single kiss for
these lips and then, O Theseus, leave
her; Look at her eyes--she's awake!

Now you're
eternally
bound.

Boy, won't
you light me
a lamp.

"But dear master,
there's light in the sky
yet.

Don't waste
your oil and
the wick.

Don't close
the shutters
so soon.

Only the houses
are blocking the sun there, it's
not yet the mountains.

Until the curfew
shall ring, full half an
hour must pass.

" Wretched young
fellow, be gone and
obey me!

My loved
one is
coming.

Lamplight, console
me till then, harbinger
warm of the night.

Poets of old in chorus cried out against those
two serpents, Making them horrible names, hated in all of the world: Python
the one, the other the Hydra of Lerna.

These monsters Both
have now been destroyed, thanks to the
deeds of the gods.

Fire-breathing, venomous once, they
no longer now depredate our Flocks
and meadows and woods, fields of golden grain.

How is it then that some spiteful
god in his wrath has Raised from the poisonous slime offspring
so monstrous again?

There's an insidious viper creeps
into the loveliest gardens, Lying in wait
to attack all who seek pleasure therein.

Noble Hesperian
dragon, I call you courageous
and forthright.

Boldly defending
your own beautiful apples
of gold.

As for this worm, why he is not guarding
at all, for his presence Sullies both garden and
fruit, till they deserve no defense.

Happy Lucretius knew how in
his day to forego love completely, Fearing not
to enjoy pleasure in anyone's arms.

Fortunate Ancient, Propertius,
for you a slave fetched the girls down From the
Aventine Hill, from Tarpeia's grove.

Cynthia then, when driving you out
of such unchaste embraces, Found you unfaithful,
it's true, but she did find you whole.

Who would today dare attempt
to escape from fidelity's
ennui?

Love does not
hold one back--only concern
for one's health.

Even the woman we love may afford
us uncertain enjoyment; Nowhere can feminine
lap safely encouch a man's head.

Matrimonial bed's insecure
and so's fornication; Husband, lover and
wife pass to each other the hurt.

Think of those ages of gold when
Jupiter followed his urges, Chose Callisto
one day, turned to Semel the next.

It was important to him to find
thresholds of temples so sacred Pure when, enamoured,
he sought powerful entry to them.

Can you imagine the ragings of
Juno if in love's skirmish Poisonous weapons on
her by her own spouse had been turned?

But we neo-pagans may not after all be
abandoned entirely: Yet there is speeding a god mercifully
over the earth, Quick and assiduous.

Everyone knows him and ought
to adore him, Herald of Zeus:
Hermes, the healing god.

Cupid will hold out his hand: O, and entrusting
myself to the rascal, I beg you please may I Do so in pleasure
with no danger or worry or fear.

I cannot think I'd have gone with
Julius Caesar to Britain; To the Popina
right here, Florus would tug me with ease.

Fogs of the dreary north remain
a more baleful remembrance Than in the kitchens
of Rome tribes of assiduous fleas.

After today, I'll remember you even
more kindly, tavernas, You osterias, as you
are called, aptly by those here in Rome.

That was the place I encountered my
mistress today with the uncle Whom she so often
deceives, so that she can have me.

She is of course well aware That
I am watching, so finally makes the V of the
Roman Five, with a virgule before.

Quickly, as soon as I've seen, She interlaces
the circles, reducing them all to ornatest Patterns--but still the
sweet IV stood as engraved in my eye.

I sat there mutely and biting my passionate lips almost
bloody Half from delight at the ruse, partly from stifled desire: Such a
long time until dark, then another four hours of waiting.

--Sun, who tarries on high, contemplating Rome: Greater
never you've nor shall you in future see greater Than Rome, O
sun, as your priest, Horace, enraptured foretold.

Tarry
no longer
today.

Go seek other
realms beneath
heaven.

Sooner depart
and leave Rome's seven
famed hills to me.

Please do the poet a favor
and shorten the glorious hours Which the painter
devours, eagerly filling his eyes.

Then Hastily
plunge to the
ocean.

First were but few simple dwellings here,
suddenly sunlight discovered Nations enlivening
hills teeming with fortunate thieves.

Onto this spot they assembled such
plunder, in your eye so splendid All earth's remaining
orb scarcely was worthy of note.

You watched a world being born here, watched
the same world sink to ruin, And from those ruins
yet arise world again greater, perhaps.

O may I
long by your light
now behold this Rome.

O but come rushing
the moment my love designated
so sweetly.

--No, but
I heard at least
three.

Thus, my dear muses,
again you've beguiled the
monotony for me.

Of this long interval
while I was apart
from my love.

All
of you now,
farewell!

I'll be going
now--don't be
offended.

For, though you're proud, you'll
concede: Cupid in
my heart comes first.

Why did you fail to
appear at the cot in the
vineyard today, Love?

As I had promised
I would, long I awaited
you there.

"Dear, I had almost arrived when I
saw, by good fortune, your uncle Standing right there by
the vines, looking now this way, now that.

Stealthily
I slipped
away.

You saw
the scarecrow,
that's all.

Nothing
else drove you
away.

Reeds and some discarded garments all
hastily cobbled together-- I helped to make
it myself: diligent in my own grief.

"Well, now
his wish
is fulfilled.

The old gardner's most dissolute
crow has Left on this day unscathed nice little
garden and niece.

" While there is many an
unpleasant sound, I hate to hear barking
Worse than anything else.

Bellowing
dogs split my
ears.

Nevertheless I do like to hear,
and take pleasure in listening To the loud
howl of the dog raised from a pup next door.

That is the dog that so bayed one time
at my girl that he almost Gave our secret
away (when she was visiting me).

Now, when I hear the dog barking I think
my beloved is coming-- Or I remember
the time, when long awaited she came.

I can tell not only about a discomfort
far greater than others, But of a horror besides, thinking of which
will arouse Every fiber in me to revulsion.

My friends, I confess it:
Great displeasure I take lying
alone in my bed.

That's why Faustina as my companion
in bed makes me happy: Loving she always remains
faithful, as I am to her.

Young men are aroused in their passions by
obstacles and by excitement; I prefer to
go slow, savoring pleasures secure.

Is it not bliss to exchange tender
kisses containing no dangers, Sucking into our
lungs, carefree, our partner's own life?

That is the way our
long nights of enjoyment
are passed.

We listen, Breast against breast, to the storm, pouring down rain
in the wind Morning begins to dawn, we expect from these hours approaching
Blossoms that will adorn festive the coming new day.

Quirites, permit me the joy, and may
this, of all pleasures on earth the First and the last,
be vouchsafed all of mankind by the god.

Ah, to uphold
one's respectable
name is not easy.

The Lady Fame
has an ancient foe: Cupid,
my master and lord.

Oh, by the way, have
you heard of the cause of their
mutual hatred?

It's an old story,
I think--Let me just tell it
again.

Powerful ever the goddess, but
nevertheless to her fellows Overbearing
and rude, quite unendurable.

She Had by the gods since time out of
mind at their banquets been dreaded, Yelling with brassiest
voice orders to great and to small.

Once, in her arrogance even maintained
that she had subjected To her own will, as her
slave, Jove's most illustrious son.

"One of these days, O father of
deities," cried she in triumph, "I shall be
bringing you my--Hercules, as if new born.

Don't think that Hercules be still that
boy whom Alcmene once bore you; His adulation
of me makes him now god upon earth.

When toward Olympus
he gazes, I've no doubt you hope that he's
looking Piously toward your knees.

He's
looking
for me.

O the vision of winning my
favor makes easy Hitherto unexplored paths,
under that powerful foot.

I do my part, for I meet him halfway
and proclaim his adventures Praising his name in
advance, even before he's begun.

One day
you'll wed me to
Hercules.

Hero who
Amazons conquered That
day will overwhelm me.

Happily
I'll call him:
 spouse.

" All of the gods kept their counsel, and
none would reply to the braggart, Lest in a pique she
devise vengeance against one of them.

Scene now completed and ready to tease,
he goes scampering, shouting For all Olympus
to hear: "Come, see these glorious deeds!

Heaven and Earth and the Sun on his
indefatigable journey Over that
infinite path never did witness the like!

" Everyone hastened, gulled by the
dissolute boy, who feigning Earnest, had summoned
them all (Fame by no means lagged behind).

Which of the gods will
now smile in sweet condescension
on Cupid?

delighted, of course,
seeing a man
humbled so.

Fame, on the other
hand, stood there ashamed, embarrassed,
despairing.

First she just
laughed, saying: "Gods, be
not deceived.

It's
a
masque.

I know my hero
too well to be fooled by
disguises of actors.

" Soon, though, in
pain she perceived: Hercules,
none but he.

How those boys, Bacchus and Mercury, guffawed, and
freely admitted: Sweet must be the repose, lying on bosom
so fine Of this magnificent woman.

They turned to Vulcan
entreating: "Do not release
them just yet.

Let us
inspect them
once more.

" And the old cuckold
was cuckold enough to comply
with their wishes.

) As for poor Fame,
in all haste, burning
with wrath she must flee.

Since then no armistice
has been proclaimed to the feuding
between them.

Let her but favor
a man, hot in pursuit
is the boy.

He whom Fame honors most can least
defend against Cupid, And her most dang'rous attacks
strike the most morally proud.

Whoever tries to
escape him is dragged down from
bad deeds to worse ones.

Yes, he will offer you girls--if like a fool you despise
These, only then do you feel from his bow the arrows most vicious: Heat
of man's love for man, ardent desires toward beasts.

For those ashamed of him Cupid
reserves the bitterest passions, Mingling for hypocrites
their pleasure in vice and remorse.

But, at the same time,
the goddess seeks him, she's
watching and list'ning.

Should find him with you, ill disposed will she be: Frighten
you, frowning austerely, contemptuously, violently casting Into
the worst of repute houses he's known to frequent.

Ah, it's the
same with
me, too.

I haven't
escaped her, the
goddess.

Jealously she
seeks me out, sweet secret
love to expose.

I will submit to the ancient
law and in silence revere her, For, when great lords
fall out, I like the Greeks must atone.

However comely be strength, or
free and undaunted comportment, Secrecy is for
a man most important of all.

Mighty subduer of cities,
Discretion, O princess of nations, Goddess whom
I adore, safely you've led me thus far.

Now, though, what
fate shall befall
me?

My frivolous muse has
now opened --Cupid, the scamp--opens lips
hitherto sealed so well.

Difficult is it, alas, to conceal the
shame of a monarch; Hide it can neither his crown, nor a
tight Phrygian cap: Midas has asses ears!

the first
servant discovers--O
horror!

Shame of this secret
so weighs, Midas
unburdens his heart.

Into the earth for safekeeping the
servant must bury the story, Easing in this
way the king:  earth must conceal the tale.

Reeds in a trice are sprouting and
rustling in murmuring breezes: "Midas, o Midas
the King--bears the ears of an ass!

" Mine is a secret more pleasant, but
even more difficult keeping: Out of abundance
of heart eagerly speaketh my mouth.

None of my ladyfriends dare I confide
in, for they would but chide me; Nor any gentleman
friend, lest he be rival to me.

Rapture proclaim to
the grove, to the echoing
cliffs perorate it?

One can do that if
one's young, or if one's
lonely enough.

I to hexameters tell, in
pentameters I will confide it: During the
day she was joy, happiness all the night long.

She's coming, and must
not be seen by
the neighbor!

Breezes, rustle
the leaves: muffle the
sound of her feet.

And as for you, little poems, o
grow and flower, your blossoms Cradling themselves in
the air, tepid and soft with love's breath.

Wafting, betray to Quirites, as
Midas' reeds did with cheap gossip, One happy couple in
love, and their sweet secret, at last.

I in the back of the garden,
the last of the gods, in a corner,
Ineptly formed, must I stand.

Evil
the inroads
of time.

Cucumber vines grow entwining
about this primeval lingam, Cracking it almost
in two under the weight of the fruit.

Faggots are heaped all about me against the
cold of the winter, Which I so hate for the crows settling then
down on my head, Which they befoul very shamefully.

Summer's no better: the servants
Empty their bowels and show insolent,
naked behinds.

Filth,
above and
below!

I was clearly in danger
of turning Into filth myself, toadstool,
rotten wood!

Now, by your efforts, O
noblest of artists, I shall recover With
fellow gods my just place.

And it's
no more than
my due.

Jupiter's throne, so dishonestly
won, it was I who secured it: Color and ivory,
marble and bronze, not to mention the poems.

Now, all intelligent
men look upon me
in kindness.

They like to Form their
own image of me, just as
the poet has done.

Nor do the girls take
offense when they see me--by no
means the matrons.

None finds me ugly
today, though I am
monstrously strong.