ah, the hidden sweetness we find when the belly is empty! we are no more or less than string instruments: if the sound box is full of so

  The same leaves over and over again! They fall from giving shade above To make one texture of faded brown And fit the earth like a leathe

  if only Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me! A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time. If only I let it bear me, car

if there are any heavens if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor a fragile heaven of li

He knew he was asleep and was dreaming Of a beautiful poem. It seemed to be singing Itself in the night, and he woke In a bed in a room in an old h

It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, Yet not quite like it, For the blueness is not transparent, Only translucent. Her soul

  I speak this poem now with grave and level voice In praise of autumn, of the far-horn-winding fall.   I praise the flower-barren fie

  patience   An absolute patience. Trees stand up to their knees in fog. The fog slowly flows uphill. White cobwebs, the grass

  A nothing day full of wild beauty and the timer pings. Roll up the silver off the bay take down the clouds sort the spruce and send to

  yellow, sadness, colour fading: flower, the sun and rain have had their way with you and yet you are rich, you are immaculate against all

I never knew the earth had so much gold— The fields run over with it, and this hill Hoary and old, Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and

  Whatever you hoped, you will not find yourselves in the garden, among the growing plants. Your lives are not circular like theirs:  

   @ @ @ A yellow flower (Light and spirit) Sings by itself For nobody.   A golden spirit (Light and emptiness) Sings without

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of

  The leaves are falling, falling, as from far away from distant gardens, somewhere in the sky they drift and wave, like someone saying 'no'

  The Opening and the Close Of Being, are alike Or differ, if they do, As Bloom upon a Stalk.   That from an equal Seed Unto an equ

There are nights that are so stillthat I can hear the small owlcallingfar off and a fox barkingmiles away. It is then that I liein the lean hours awak

When in still air and still in summertime A leaf has had enough of this, it seems To make up its mind to go; fine as a sage Its drifting in detach