Ode To Silence
Aye, but she? Your other sister and my other soul Grave Silence, lovelier Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? Clio, not you, Not you, Calliope, Nor all your wanton line, Not Beauty’s
Two Sonnets In Memory
(Nicola Sacco Bartolomeo Vanzetti) Executed August 23, 1927 I As men have loved their lovers in times past And sung their wit, their virtue and their grace, So have we loved sweet Justice to
The Little Hill
Oh, here the air is sweet and still, And soft’s the grass to lie on; And far away’s the little hill They took for Christ to die on. And there’s a hill across the
The Poet And His Book
Down, you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel! I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel! You shall scratch and you shall whine Many a night, and you shall worry Many a bone,
Whereas At Morning In A Jeweled Crown
Whereas at morning in a Jeweled Crown I bit my fingers and was hard to please, Having shook disaster till the fruit fell down I feel tonight more happy and at ease: Feet running
Indifference
I said,-for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,- “I’ll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in bed; But I’ll never leave my pillow, though there be
Sonnet 03: Mindful Of You The Sodden Earth In Spring
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring, And all the flowers that in the springtime grow, And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
Sonnets 09: Let You Not Say Of Me When I Am Old
Let you not say of me when I am old, In pretty worship of my withered hands Forgetting who I am, and how the sands Of such a life as mine run red and
The Dream
Love, if I weep it will not matter, And if you laugh I shall not care; Foolish am I to think about it, But it is good to feel you there. Love, in my
The Bean-Stalk
Ho, Giant! This is I! I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! La,-but it’s lovely, up so high! This is how I came,-I put Here my knee, there my foot, Up and
Inland
People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound Of water sucking the
An Ancient Gesture
I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: Penelope did this too. And more than once: you can’t keep weaving all day And undoing it all through the night;
To Kathleen
STILL must the poet as of old, In barren attic bleak and cold, Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to Such things as flowers and song and you; Still as of old his being give
Mariposa
Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two. All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in
The Shroud
Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,-O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! (I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a