Who, who will be the next man to e… Love interferes with fidelities; The gods have brought shame on the… Each man wants the pomegranate for… Amiable and harmonious people are…

O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already.

To me at my fifth-floor window The chimney-pots in rows Are sets of pipes pandean For every wind that blows; And the smoke that whirls and eddi…

When I behold how black, immortal… Drips from my deathless pen —ah, w… Why should we stop at all for what… There is enough in what I chance… It is enough that we once came tog…

“Lappo I leave behind and Dante t… Lo, I would sail the seas with th… Talk me no love talk, no bought-ch… Mine is the ship and thine the mer… All the blind earth knows not th’e…

The girl in the tea shop Is not so beautiful as she was, The August has worn against her. She does not get up the stairs so… Yes, she also will turn middle—age…

Earth’s winter cometh And I being part of all And sith the spirit of all moveth… I must needs bear earth’s winter Drawn cold and grey with hours

The rain and the wind, the wind an… They are with us like a disease: They worry the heart, they work th… As they shoulder and clutch at the… And savage the helpless trees.

Why, my heart, do we love her so? (Geraldine, Geraldine!) Why does the great sea ebb and flo… Why does the round world spin? Geraldine, Geraldine,

(Ex libris Graecæ) Theodorus will be pleased at my de… And .someone else will be pleased… And yet everyone speaks evil of de… This place is the Cyprian’s for s…

Sez the Times a silver lining Is what has set us pining, Montague, Montague! In the season sad and weary When our minds are very bleary,

With minds still hovering above th… Certain poets here and in France Still sigh over established and na… Long since fully discussed by Ovi… They howl. They complain in delic…

After Li Po While my hair was still cut straig… across my forehead I played at the front gate, pullin… flowers.

Her grave, sweet haughtiness Pleaseth me, and in like wise Her quiet ironies. Others are beautiful, none more, s… I suppose, when poetry comes down…