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…

In the Shreve High football stadi… I think of Polacks nursing long b… And gray faces of Negroes in the… And the ruptured night watchman of… Dreaming of heroes.

She cleaned house, and then lay do… On the long stair. On one of those cold white wings That the strange fowl provide for… That cautery of snow that blinds u…

It can’t be the passing of time th… That white shadow across the water… Just offshore. I shiver a little, with the evenin… I turn down the steep path to find

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

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

All right. Try this, Then. Every body I know and care for, And every body Else is going

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…

Deep into spring, winter is hanging on. Bitter and skillful in his hopelessness, he stays alive in every shady place, starving along the Mediterranean: angry to see the glittering sea-p...

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...

Just off the highway to Rochester… Twilight bounds softly forth on th… And the eyes of those two Indian… Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the w…

After dark Near the South Dakota border, The moon is out hunting, everywher… Delivering fire, And walking down hallways

Relieved, I let the book fall beh… I climb a slight rise of grass. I do not want to disturb the ants Who are walking single file up the… Carrying small white petals,

Over my head, I see the bronze bu… Asleep on the black trunk, blowing like a leaf in green shado… Down the ravine behind the empty h… The cowbells follow one another

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