Category Poets

Those final Creatures, – who they are – That faithful to the close Administer her ecstasy, But just the Summer knows.

Those cattle smaller than a Bee That herd upon the eye — Whose tillage is the passing Crumb — Those Cattle are the Fly — Of Barns for Winter — blameless — Extemporaneous stalls They found to our objection —…

Those — dying then, Knew where they went — They went to God’s Right Hand — That Hand is amputated now And God cannot be found — The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small — Better an ignis fatuus…

This slow Day moved along — I heard its axles go As if they could not hoist themselves They hated motion so — I told my soul to come — It was no use to wait — We went and…

This Me — that walks and works — must die, Some fair or stormy Day, Adversity if it may be Or wild prosperity The Rumor’s Gate was shut so tight Before my mind was born Not even a Prognostic’s push…

This is the place they hoped before, Where I am hoping now. The seed of disappointment grew Within a capsule gay, Too distant to arrest the feet That walk this plank of balm — Before them lies escapeless sea —…

This docile one inter While we who dare to live Arraign the sunny brevity That sparkled to the Grave. On her departing span No wilderness remain As dauntless in the House of Death As if it were her own —

This dirty — little — Heart Is freely mine. I won it with a Bun — A Freckled shrine — But eligibly fair To him who sees The Visage of the Soul And not the knees.

They talk as slow as Legends grow No mushroom is their mind But foliage of sterility Too stolid for the wind — They laugh as wise as Plots of Wit Predestined to unfold The point with bland prevision Portentously untold.

To him who keeps an Orchis’ heart – The swamps are pink with June.