Villanelle of Change
Since Persia fell at Marathon, The yellow years have gathered fast: Long centuries have come and gone. And yet (they say) the place will don A phantom fury of the past, Since Persia fell
Two Gardens in Linndale
Two brothers, Oakes and Oliver, Two gentle men as ever were, Would roam no longer, but abide In Linndale, where their fathers died, And each would be a gardener. “Now first we fence the
Lost Anchors
Like a dry fish flung inland far from shore, There lived a sailor, warped and ocean-browned, Who told of an old vessel, harbor-drowned, And out of mind a century before, Where divers, on descending
The Tree In Pamela's Garden
Pamela was too gentle to deceive Her roses. “Let the men stay where they are,” She said, “and if Apollo’s avatar Be one of them, I shall not have to grieve.” And so she
The Whip
The doubt you fought so long The cynic net you cast, The tyranny, the wrong, The ruin, they are past; And here you are at last, Your blood no longer vexed. The coffin has
Souvenir
A vanished house that for an hour I knew By some forgotten chance when I was young Had once a glimmering window overhung With honeysuckle wet with evening dew. Along the path tall dusky
Caput Mortuum
Not even if with a wizard force I might Have summoned whomsoever I would name, Should anyone else have come than he who came, Uncalled, to share with me my fire that night; For
Lazarus
“No, Mary, there was nothing-not a word. Nothing, and always nothing. Go again Yourself, and he may listen-or at least Look up at you, and let you see his eyes. I might as well
Ben Trovato
The Deacon thought. “I know them,” he began, “And they are all you ever heard of them – Allurable to no sure theorem, The scorn or the humility of man. You say ‘Can I
But for the Grace of God
“There, but for the grace of God, goes…” There is a question that I ask, And ask again: What hunger was half-hidden by the mask That he wore then? There was a word for
Ballad of Broken Flutes
In dreams I crossed a barren land, A land of ruin, far away; Around me hung on every hand A deathful stillness of decay; And silent, as in bleak dismay That song should thus
Boston
My northern pines are good enough for me, But there’s a town my memory uprears – A town that always like a friend appears, And always in the sunrise by the sea. And over
Two Quatrains
I As eons of incalculable strife Are in the vision of one moment caught, So are the common, concrete things of life Divinely shadowed on the walls of Thought. II We shriek to live,
Archibald's Example
Old Archibald, in his eternal chair, Where trespassers, whatever their degree, Were soon frowned out again, was looking off Across the clover when he said to me: “My green hill yonder, where the sun
Pasa Thalassa Thalassa
“The sea is everywhere the sea.” I Gone-faded out of the story, the sea-faring friend I remember? Gone for a decade, they say: never a word or a sign. Gone with his hard red