«I sing when throat is moist, and soul is dry and cold, / And when my eye is damp, and mind does not dissemble: / How healthy is the wine? And will the wineskins hold? / And what about Colchian’s bloody coursing tremble? / Demure’s my breast, it has no words – it is not bold: / My son...»
«At moment’s blooming I was not then questing, / Cassandra, for your lips, Cassandra, for your eyes, / But we’re December’s solemn wait digesting – / We’re hounded by our memories’ lies. In 1917 in mid-December / We find we’ve lost love and it all; / The people’s will will ...»
«In northern capital a dusty poplar’s planted, / Translucent clock-face is ensnared by dappled green, / And in its shade gleams house or battleship enchanted / From far away, the kin of sky and water’s sheen. A breezy barque, its mast of touch-me-not is slender, / It stands in line along...»
«In dreadful world of grim oppressor / You, midnight burials’ gruesome friend, / In suicide’s strict lofty dresser / The telephone tells of the end. The asphalt blackened lakes are pitted / As angry horse hooves clatter by, / Comes soon the sun; then soon emitted / Will be the sensel...»