The crooked paths go every way
Upon the hill — they wind about
Since men grow diffident at last,
And care no whit at all,
The emus formed a football team Up Walgett way;
We are on the high sea... Mad in space
The moonlight plays — golden butterfly;
In the Book of God (Ilahi-nama) 'Attar framed his mystical teachings in various stories that a caliph tells his six sons, who are kings
I heard a bird at dawn Singing sweetly on a tree,
He rises and begins to round, He drops the silver chain of sound
A day and then a week passed by: The redbird hanging from the sill
When painters leave this world, we grieve
For the hand that will work no more,
A silence slipping around like death,
Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath...
Era el crepúsculo de la iguana.
Desde la arcoirisada crestería
The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert,
They don’t believe in fairies,
Those old folk wide and staid,
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
He would still be, even if it might have been naught
Drowned I am in my ego
Grasshopper, your fairy song
And my poem alike belong
When Earth's last picture is painted And the tubes are twisted and dried
THE fog comes
on little cat feet.
The last leaves' embers in total immolation
Rise into the sky; this whole forest
Went down to the river, sot me down an' listened,
Heard de water talkin' quiet, quiet lak an' slow:
Thief of the moon, thou robber of old delight, Thy charms have stolen the star-gold, quenched the moon-
A few red apples hang on leafless boughs;
wind whips bushes briskly
Frost called to the water Halt
And crushed the moist snow with sparkling salt;
I have sailed the River of Yellow Flowers,
Borne by the channel of a green stream,
The earth was green, the sky was blue:
I saw and heard one sunny morn
"Oh, dear, with the just unfolded tender leaflets of Mango trees as his incisive arrows, and with shining strings of honeybees as his bo
Under der linden
an der heide,
But soon we must rise, O my heart, we must wander again
Into the war of the world and the strife of the throng;
The Sun revolving on his axis turns,
And with creative fire intensely burns;
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