«The smokey blotches of the neighbours’ windows, / and windswept roses bending, drawing breath — / if I could think that life is but a dream, / that we cannot help waking after death. To wait in heaven — heaven is so blue — / to wait in that cool bliss without a care. / And then, ...»
«I still find charm in little accidental / trifles, empty little things — / say, in a novel without end or title, / or in this rose, now wilting in my hands. I like its moiré petals, dappled / with trembling silver drops of rain — / and how I found it on the sidewalk, / and how I’...»
«Where can I look, where can I go, / to find that almost Alpine snow, / all sacrificed so life can grow, / all turned by May to splash and flow, / to breath of dandelion and rose, / to mighty wave or shining billow — / into that foolish question posed / by François Villon long ago?»
«Led by what is shining, / the sleepwalker looks into a blank, / black is the death beneath him / and there’s no knowing / where the moon’s thin ledge / will slide him. The innocent are executed / in a universal night — / look the other way. / Look into cold nothing / and let...»