‘Gabble—gabble . . . brethren . .… My window glimpses larch and heath… I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whethe… The text is praise or exhortation,
Lost manor where I walk continual… A ghost, while yet in woman’s fles… Up your broad stairs mounting with… And gliding steadfast down your co… I come by nightly custom to this r…
We may well wonder at those bearde… Who like the scorpion and the basi… Couched in the desert sands, to un… Their scrufy flesh with tortures. They drank from pools fouled by th…
Those famous men of old, the Ogre… They had long beards and stinking… They were wide-mouthed, long-yarde… Yet of no taller stature, Sirs, t… They lived on Ogre-Strand, which…
Entrance and exit wounds are silve… The track aches only when the rain… The one—legged man forgets his leg… The one—armed man his jointed wood… The blinded man sees with his ears…
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
Not to sleep all the night long, f… Counting no sheep and careless of… Welcoming the dawn confabulation Of birds, her children, who discus… Fanciful details of the promised c…
Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine. No need for bowl or silver spoon,
His eyes are quickened so with gri… He can watch a grass or leaf Every instant grow; he can Clearly through a flint wall see, Or watch the startled spirit flee
White flabbiness goes brown and le… Dumpling arms are now brass bars, They’ve learnt to suffer and live… And to think below the stars. They’ve steeled a tender, girlish…
I now delight In spite Of the might And the right Of classic tradition,
Why do you break upon this old, co… This painted peace of ours, With harsh dress hissing like a fl… With garish flowers? Why do you churn smooth waters rou…
The silent shepherdess, She of my vows, Here with me exchanging love Under dim boughs. Shines on our mysteries
I’ve whined of coming death, but n… It’s weak and most ungracious. Fo… Though still a boy if years are co… I’ve lived those years from roof t… And feel, like grey—beards touchin…
Children, if you dare to think Of the greatness, rareness, muchne… Fewness of this precious only Endless world in which you say You live, you think of things like…