IT’S hard to know if you’re alive… When steel and fire go roaring thr… One moment you’ll be crouching at… Traversing, mowing heaps down half… The next, you choke and clutch at…
SHE: You’ll not forget these roc… HE: How could I? Never: whatever… SHE: What do you think might hap… Might you fall out of love? —did y… HE: Never, never! `Whatever’ was…
There is one story and one story o… That will prove worth your telling… Whether are learned bard or gifted… To it all lines or lesser gauds be… That startle with their shining
The hunter to the husbandman Pays tribute since our love began, And to love—loyalty dedicates The phantom kills he meditates. Let me embrace, embracing you,
‘Gabble—gabble, . . . brethren, .… My window frames forest and heathe… I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whethe… The text is praise or exhortation,
Yet once an earlier David took Smooth pebbles from the brook: Out between the lines he went To that one—sided tournament, A shepherd boy who stood out fine
Not to sleep all the night long, f… Counting no sheep and careless of… Welcoming the dawn confabulation Of birch, her children, who discus… Fanciful details of the promised c…
Here is this patchwork quilt I’ve… Of patterned silks and old brocade… Small faded rags in memory rich Sewn each to each with feather sti… But if you stare aghast perhaps
Now I begin to know at last, These nights when I sit down to r… The form and measure of that vast God we call Poetry, he who stoops And leaps me through his paper hoo…
Near Martinpuich that night of he… Two men were struck by the same sh… Together tumbling in one heap Senseless and limp like slaughtere… One was a pale eighteen—year—old,
He, of his gentleness, Thirsting and hungering Walked in the Wilderness; Soft words of grace he spoke Unto lost desert—folk
He is quick, thinking in clear ima… I am slow, thinking in broken imag… He becomes dull, trusting to his c… I become sharp, mistrusting my bro… Trusting his images, he assumes th…
As Jesus and his followers Upon a Sabbath morn Were walking by a wheat field They plucked the ears of corn. They plucked it, they rubbed it,
Here in turn succeed and rule Carter, smith, and village fool, Then again the place is known As tavern, shop, and Sunday—schoo… Now somehow it’s come to me
Have you spent the money I gave y… Ay, father I have. A fourpence on cakes, two pennies… To a beggar I gave. The lake of yellow brimstone boil…