FEELING hunger and cold, feelin… Food, feeling fire, feeling Pity and pain, tasting Time in a kiss, tasting Anger and tears, touching

THOU moon, like a white Christus… At the sky’s cross-roads, I’ll co… Though travellers bend up, and see… Let them go truckle with their gif… I’ll ask no favours of thy cocker…

(Or Goethe for the Times) ONCE long ago lived a Flea Who kept such a fine, fat King, Not that he held with royalty, But more for the appearance of the…

RANKS of electroplated cubes, dw… Like the other pasture, the trigon… Death’s candy-bed. Stone caked on… Dry pyramids and racks of iron bal… Life is observed, a precipitate of…

THE smell of birds’ nests faintly… Is autumn. In the autumn I came Where spring had used me better, To the clear red pebbles and the m… And foundered beetles, to the brok…

SCALY with poison, bright with f… Great fungi steam beside the gate, Run tentacles through flagstone cr… Or claw beyond, where meditate Wet poplars on a pitchy lawn.

(To the memory of William Hickey,… COMING out of India with ten th… Exchanged for flesh and temper, a… Whose devil barters with digestion… For dipping his fingers in the Ro…

READING how Marco Polo came By bridle-path to Kanbalu, Forgotten fibres wake to flame, And smoke old memories anew . . .… For in a bygone life of mine

So quiet it was in that high, sun-… So warm and still, that sometimes… Through the great windows, bright… There’d float a chime from clock-j… Clapping iron mallets on green cop…

VENUS with rosy-cloven rump And rings of straw-bright flying h… Looks in the glass that slaves are… Not for her own face floating ther… But for the sly and curious gaze

Thief of the moon, thou robber of… Thy charms have stolen the star—go… Cold, cold are the birds that, bub… Cried once to my ears their unreme… Dark are those orchards, their lea…

THAT street washed with violet Writes like a tablet Of living here; that pavement Is the metal embodiment Of living here; those terraces

GOOD roaring pistol-boys, brave… Good roistering easy maids, blown… On floods of tavern-steam, I gree… With wild Canary, drowned in wine… I’ll swear your round, red faces d…

(To the etchings of Norman Lindsa… Now the statues lean over each to… Gravely in warm plaster turning; t… The trees come suddenly to flower… The water-gardens to glassy fire,…

‘BEES of old Spanish wine Pipe at this Inn to-night, Music and candleshine Fill the dim chambers . . . . ’Fans toss and ladies pace,