#AmericanWriters
I, one who never speaks, Listened days in summer trees, Each day a rustling leaf. Then, in time, my unbelief Grew like my running—
The calloused grass lies hard Against the cracking plain: Life is a grayish stain; The salt-marsh hems my yard. Dry dikes rise hill on hill;
The grandeur of deep afternoons, The pomp of haze on marble hills, Where every white-walled villa swo… Through violence that heat fulfill… Pass tirelessly and more alone
Who knows Where my sight goes, What your sight shows— Where the peachtree blows? The frogs sing
Snake River Country I now remembered slowly how I cam… I, sometime living, sometime with… Creeping by iron ways across the b… Wastes of Wyoming, turning in des…
God spoke once in the dark: dead s… in the dead silence. I turned in my sleep. I slept and sank away. Then breath by breath I rose
I was the patriarch of the shining… Of the blond summer and metallic g… Men vanished at the motion of my h… And when I beckoned they would co… The earth grew dense with grain at…
My mother Foresaw deaths And walked among Chrysanthemums, Winecolored,
On the desert, between pale mounta… Far whispers creeping through an a… Coyote, on delicate mocking feet, Hovers down the canyon, among the… His voice running wild in the wind…
Where I walk out to meet you on the cloth of burning fields the goldfinches
Where am I now? And what Am I to say portends? Death is but death, and not The most obtuse of ends. No matter how one leans
The spring has darkened with activ… The future gathers in vine, bush,… Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, an… Degrees and kinds of color, taste,… These will advance in their due se…
The night was faint and sheer; Immobile, road and dune. Then, for a moment, clear, A plane moved past the moon. O spirit cool and frail,
I could tell Of silence where One ran before Himself and fell Into silence
Achilles Holt, Stanford, 1930 Here for a few short years Strengthen affections; meet, Later, the dull arrears Of age, and be discreet.