I, one who never speaks, Listened days in summer trees, Each day a rustling leaf. Then, in time, my unbelief Grew like my running—

My mother Foresaw deaths And walked among Chrysanthemums, Winecolored,

I was the patriarch of the shining… Of the blond summer and metallic g… Men vanished at the motion of my h… And when I beckoned they would co… The earth grew dense with grain at…

God spoke once in the dark: dead s… in the dead silence. I turned in my sleep.       I slept and sank away. Then breath by breath I rose

The grandeur of deep afternoons, The pomp of haze on marble hills, Where every white-walled villa swo… Through violence that heat fulfill… Pass tirelessly and more alone

Where am I now? And what Am I to say portends? Death is but death, and not The most obtuse of ends. No matter how one leans

On the desert, between pale mounta… Far whispers creeping through an a… Coyote, on delicate mocking feet, Hovers down the canyon, among the… His voice running wild in the wind…

Dear Emily, my tears would burn y… But for the fire-dry line that mak… Burning my eyes, my fingers, while… Singly the words that crease my he… If I could make some tortured pil…

The branches, jointed, pointing up and out, shine out like brass. Upon the heavy

The young are quick of speech. Grown middle-aged, I teach Corrosion and distrust, Exacting what I must. A poem is what stands

Who knows Where my sight goes, What your sight shows— Where the peachtree blows? The frogs sing

Reptilian green the wrinkled throa… Green as a bough of yew the beard; He bent his head, and so I smote; Then for a thought my vision clear… The head dropped clean; he rose an…

I could tell Of silence where One ran before Himself and fell Into silence

Europe: 1944 as regarded from a great distance Impersonal the aim Where giant movements tend; Each man appears the same;