Fanfare of northwest wind, a bluejay wind
announces autumn, and the equinox
434 lines, 1 comment
All lovely things will have an ending,
All lovely things will fade and die,
16 lines, 4 comments
While the blue noon above us arches, And the poplar sheds disconsolate leaves,
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Light your cigarette, then, in this shadow,
And talk to her, your arm engaged with hers.
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Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
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In the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive,
The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves,
14 lines, 1 comment
Fill your bowl with roses: the bowl, too, have of crystal.
Sit at the western window. Take the sun
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He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
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Behold me, in my chiffon, gauze, and tinsel,
Flitting out of the shadow into the spotlight,
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Dead Cleopatra lies in a crystal casket, Wrapped and spiced by the cunningest of hands.
23 lines, 1 comment
I. (Bread and Music)
Music I heard with you was more than music,
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The parrot, screeching, flew out into the darkness,
Circled three times above the upturned faces
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It is moonlight. Alone in the silence
I ascend my stairs once more,
36 lines, 1 comment
I
In the pale mauve twilight, streaked with orange,
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These hills are sandy. Trees are dwarfed here. Crows Caw dismally in skies of an arid brilliance,
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I read the primrose and the sea
&
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If one voice, not another, must speak first,
out of the silence, the stillness, the preceding—
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In Memory Of. In Fondest Recollection Of.
In Loving Memory Of. In Fond
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Goya drew a pig on a wall.
The five-year-old hairdresser’s son
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Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
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The lamp-lit page is turned, the dream forgotten;
The music changes tone, you wake, remember
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‘My towers at last!’—
What meant the word
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How is it that I am now so softly awakened,
My leaves shaken down with music?—
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Harsh, harsh, the maram grass on the salt dune,
seen by the cricket’s eye against the harbor moon,
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Of what she said to me that night—no matter.
The strange thing came next day.
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The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
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I stood for a long while before the shop window
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
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The first bell is silver,
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
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On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery,
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage;
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When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles
In many lengths along a wall
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