Along the sprawled body of the der… I strike a match slowly and lift i… No wind. Beyond town, three heavy white hor… Wade all the way to their shoulder…

And how can I, born in evil days And fresh from failure, ask a kind… —Written A.D. 819 Po Chu-i, balding old politician, What’s the use?

Give me this time, my first and se… Italian, a poem about gold, The left corners of eyes, and the… Night of the locomotives that brou… And the heavy wine in the old gree…

I was only a young man In those days. On that evening The cold was so God damned Bitter there was nothing. Nothing. I was in trouble

This time, I have left my body be… In its dark thorns. Still, There are good things in this worl… It is dusk.

Dark cypresses— The world is uneasily happy; It will all be forgotten. —Theodore Storm Mother of roots, you have not seed…

It is all right. All they do Is go in by dividing One rib from another. I wouldn’t Lie to you. It hurts Like nothing I know. All they do

From an epigram by Plato When I was a boy, a relative Asked for me a job At the Weeks Cemetery. Think of all I could

I am sitting contented and alone in a little park near the Palazzo Scaligere in Verona, glimpsing the mists of early autumn as they shift and fade among the pines and city battlements o...

Anghiari is medieval, a sleeve slo… A steep hill, suddenly sweeping ou… To the edge of a cliff, and dwindl… But far up the mountain, behind th… We too were swept out, out by the…

Still, I would leap too Into the light, If I had the chance. It is everything, the wet green st…

The moon drops one or two feathers… The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now. There they are, the moon’s young,…

Nightfall, that saw the morning-gl… Tendril and string against the cru… Nurses him now, his skeleton for g… His locks for comfort curled among… Shuttles of moonlight weave his sh…

Varus, varus, gib mir meine Legio… Quick on my feet in those Novembe… I tossed a short pass, Almost the instant I got the ball… Of Barrel Terry before he knocked…

I had no idea the elf owl Crept into you in the secret Of night. I have torn myself out of many bit… In America, that seemed