Rabbi, we Gadarenes Are not ascetics; we are fond of w… Love, as You call it, we obviate… Of the planned release of aggressi… We have deep faith in properity.

Sidling upon the river, the white… Has volleyed with its cannon all t… Shaken the shore towns like a Jud… Telling the palsied water its dema… That the crime come to the top aga…

One wading a Fall meadow finds on… The Queen Anne’s Lace lying like… On water; it glides So from the walker, it turns Dry grass to a lake, as the slight…

I read how Quixote in his random… Came to a crossing once, and lest… The purity of chance, would not de… Whither to fare, but wished his ho… For glory lay wherever turned the…

Seeing the snowman standing all al… In dusk and cold is more than he c… The small boy weeps to hear the wi… A night of gnashings and enormous… His tearful sight can hardly reach…

Shall I love God for causing me t… I was mere utterance; shall these… Yet when I caused His work to jar… And one free subject loosened all… I love Him that He did not in a r…

St. John tells how, at Cana’s wed… The water-pots poured wine in such… That by his sober count There were a hundred gallons at th… It made no earthly sense, unless t…

Where far in forest I am laid, In a place ringed around by stones… Look for no melancholy shade, And have no thoughts of buried bon… For I am bodiless and bright,

Now winter downs the dying of the… And night is all a settlement of s… From the soft street the rooms of… A gathered light, a shapen atmosph… Like frozen-over lakes whose ice i…

The good gray guardians of art Patrol the halls on spongy shoes, Impartially protective, though Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse. Here dozes one against the wall,

A ball will bounce; but less and l… A light-hearted thing, resents its… Falling is what it loves, and the… So in our hearts from brilliance, Settles and is forgot.

Securely sunning in a forest glade… A mild, well-meaning snake Approved the adaptations he had ma… For safety’s sake. He liked the skin he had—

Piecemeal the summer dies; At the field’s edge a daisy lives… A last shawl of burning lies On a gray field-stone. All cries are thin and terse;

The tall camels of the spirit Steer for their deserts, passing t… With the sawmill shrill of the loc… arid Sun. They are slow, proud,

Sometimes, on waking, she would cl… For a last look at that white hous… In sleep alone, and held no title… And had not entered yet, for all h… What did she tell me of that house…