Greece sees, unmoved, God’s daughter, born of love, the beauty of cool feet and slenderest knees, could love indeed the maid, only if she were laid, white ash amidst funeral cypresses.
I purchased my love for money, there was nothing else I could get, sing angelic, you rasping strings, sing angelic of lovers yet. That dream, that never came true, that dream was angelic to get, for him, who is banished from Eden, is Eden an Eden yet.
I know monks masturbate at night That pet cats screw That some girls bite And yet What can I do To set things right?
A poem should be equal to Not true. For all the history of grief An empty doorway and a maple leaf. For love The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea — A poem should not mean But be.
This is the time of all-sufficing laughter At idiotic things some one has done, And there is neither past nor vague hereafter. And all your body stretches in the sun And drinks the light in like a liquid thing; Filled with the divine languor of late spring.
If for a moment God would forget that I am a rag doll and give me a scrap of life, possibly I would not say everything that I think, but I would definitely think everything that I say. My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hatred on ice and wait for […]
We cannot know his legendary head with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso is still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low, gleams in all its power. Otherwise the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could a smile run through the placid […]
I àusi zirà in alt i vuj su li pichis secis dai lens, no jot il Signòur, ma il so lun ch’al brila sempri imèns. Di tantis robis ch’i sai i ‘n sint tal còur doma una, i soj zòvin, vif, ‘bandunàt, cu’l cuàrp ch’al si consuma. I stai un momènt ta l’erba dal rivàl, […]
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that […]
Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the soul feels like a dried sheaf Bound up at length for harvesting, And how death seems a comely thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?