Lament (O how all things are far removed)
O how all things are far removed And long have passed away. I do believe the star, Whose light my face reflects, Is dead and has been so For many thousand years. I had
Evening Love Song
Ornamental clouds Compose an evening love song; A road leaves evasively. The new moon begins A new chapter of our nights, Of those frail nights We stretch out and which mingle With these black
Encounter In The Chestnut Avenue
He felt the entrance’s green darkness Wrapped cooly round him like a silken cloak That he was still accepting and arranging; When at the opposite transparent end, far off, Through green sunlight, as through
What Survives
Who says that all must vanish? Who knows, perhaps the flight Of the bird you wound remains, And perhaps flowers survive Caresses in us, in their ground. It isn’t the gesture that lasts, But
Girl's Lament
In the years when we were All children, this inclining To be alone so much was gentle; Others’ time passed fighting, And one had one’s faction, One’s near, one’s far-off place, A path, an
Song
(From the diaries of Malte Laurids Brigge) You, whom I do not tell that all night long I lie weeping, Whose very being makes me feel wanting Like a cradle. You, who do not
Moving Forward
The deep parts of my life pour onward, As if the river shores were opening out. It seems that things are more like me now, That I can see farther into paintings. I feel
Palm
Interior of the hand. Sole that has come to walk Only on feelings. That faces upward And in its mirror Receives heavenly roads, which travel Along themselves. That has learned to walk upon water
Ignorant Before The Heavens Of My Life
Ignorant before the heavens of my life, I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness Of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still. As if I didn’t exist. Do I have any
Lady At A Mirror
As in sleeping-drink spices Softly she loosens in the liquid-clear Mirror her fatigued demeanor; And she puts her smile deep inside. And she waits while the liquid Rises from it; then she pours her
The Last Evening
And night and distant rumbling; now the army’s Carrier-train was moving out, to war. He looked up from the harpsichord, and as He went on playing, he looked across at her Almost as one
Black Cat
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place Your sight can knock on, echoing; but here Within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze Will be absorbed and utterly disappear: Just as a
Self-Portrait
The steadfastness of generations of nobility Shows in the curving lines that form the eyebrows. And the blue eyes still show traces of childhood fears And of humility here and there, not of a
The Grown-Up
All this stood upon her and was the world And stood upon her with all its fear and grace As trees stand, growing straight up, imageless Yet wholly image, like the Ark of God,