«The poems grow like heaven’s stars and roses, / Like beauty too — unneeded in my clan. / And for the garlands and apotheosis / There’s one response — how can this be my plan? We sleep — and through the slabs of stone then flutter / The fragrant and four-petalled heav’nly guest...»
«At him on windows tap the roses, / And wraps the smarmy chord its shroud... / He will not change his haughty poses, / A Byronist — oh, how he’s proud! In velvet shimmer of the garden / With shepherdess does cupid play. / The adolescent’s features harden, / A Byronist — he can...»
«Rummage with your torches / All the moonlit night! / Charted are land’s porches — / But it’s lost from sight. Lapped up from the saucer — / Gleams the bottom glazed. / Can you go back ever / To the house they’ve razed? Second birth’s requirement, / Land renewed must lead....»
«My day is aimless and absurd: / For beggar’s bread my begging’s heard, / I give my pittance to the loaded, A beam, through needle’s eye I slip, / And with a key the thief I tip, / With daub of lime my pallor’s coated. The beggar doesn’t give me bread, / My proffered coin meets ...»