My garden is the wild Sea of the grass. Her garden Shelters between walls. The tide could break in; I should be sorry for this.

The old man comes out on the hill and looks down to recall earlier d… in the valley. He sees the stream… the church stand, hears the litter… children’s voices. A chill in the…

So beautiful—God himself quailed at her approach: the long body cur… like the horizon. Why had he made her so? How would it be, she said, leaning towards him, if instead of

I look out over the timeless sea over the head of one, calendar to time’s passing, who is now open at the last month, her hair wintry… Am I catalyst of her mettle that,

It is a matter of a black cat On a bare cliff top in March Whose eyes anticipate The gorse petals; The formal equation of

I have this that I must do One day: overdraw on my balance Of air, and breaking the surface Of water go down into the green Darkness to search for the door

All my life I was face to face with her, at meal—times, by the fire, even in the ultimate intimacies

Davies thought life was long; there was a sameness in the song. Pugh thought it all too brief, the fruit ripe before the leaf turned. How is it with you

And this was a civilization That came to nothing—he spurned wi… The slave—coloured dust. We breat… Thankfully, oxygen to our culture. Somebody found a curved bone

We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.