Wild little bird, who chose thee f… To put upon the cover of this book… Who heard thee singing in the dist… The vague, far greenness of the en… When the damp freshness of the mor…

Paul Jannes was working very late… For this watch must be done by eig… To-morrow or the Cardinal Would certainly be vexed. Of all His customers the old prelate

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

I learnt to write to you in happie… And every letter was a piece I ch… From off my heart, a fragment newl… From the mosaic of life; its blues… Its throbbing reds, I gave to ear…

The chatter of little people Breaks on my purpose Like the water-drops which slowly… And while I laugh My spirit crumbles at their teasin…

An arid daylight shines along the… Dried to a grey monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft… The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond… Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Her…

The neighbour sits in his window a… From my bed I can hear him, And the round notes flutter and ta… And hit against each other, Blurring to unexpected chords.

Stupefy my heart to every day’s mo… Seal up my eyes, I would not look… Chasten my steps to peaceful regul… Bow down my head lest I behold a… Fill my days with work, a thousand…

My heart is like a cleft pomegrana… Bleeding crimson seeds And dripping them on the ground. My heart gapes because it is ripe… And its seeds are bursting from it…

I cut myself upon the thought of y… And yet I come back to it again a… A kind of fury makes me want to dr… From the dimness of the present And set you sharply above me in a…

Thin-voiced, nasal pipes Drawing sound out and out Until it is a screeching thread, Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutti… It hurts.

Slowly, without force, the rain dr… on the carved head of Saint John,… over his stone cloak. It splashes… and falls from it in turmoil on th… Where are the people, and why does…

How fresh the Dartle’s little wav… A steely silver, underlined with b… And flashing where the round cloud… Let drop the yellow sunshine to gl… And tip the edges of the waves wit…

In the cloud gray mornings I heard the herons Flying And when I came into my garden, My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves.

What is poetry? Is it a mosaic Of coloured stones which curiously… Into a pattern? Rather glass that… By patient labor any hue to take And glowing with a sumptuous splen…