In summer, the song sings itself.
The perfect man of action, is the suicide.
If they give you lined paper, write the other way.
The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
Young Woman At A Window
She sits with
her cheek on
in her lap
to the glass
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,
by what devious means do you contrive
to remain idle? Teach me, O master.
the back wings
will grow lie
In which shine
pieces of a green
The Gentle Man
I feel the caress of my own fingers
on my own neck as I place my collar
and think pityingly
of the kind women I have known.
What power has love but forgiveness In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise