Poetry

The planes seem to crash into my room. I feel their wings lurch In torment of darkness And silver; they leave their shadow Flat for an instant, then run Across the floor, like mice. One long, little shadow of death ...

KNAP! ... Knap! ... Knap! ... A stone among stones I sit, Knap . . . Knap . . . Knap— Who is the leader? Not he On the galloping horse, Though he fly like the wind In its course; ...

Sarah, walking in the rain With her red mouth twisted in unconcern, Sarah, Sarah with her lovely paleness— How much I could learn at her lips, Of sorrow, sweet despair, of loving and dying. Sarah, crying in the night that ...

This is the hour When the black dog is eating moonstones and on the dark river gipsies are singing of moons made of blood. This is the hour when moths speak of insistence to a flame of white silence when ...

The farmer turns for home; his team's glad tread  Drums from the furrows red, Passing where bronze sheep graze In brass-bright haze. In kitchen wide, the grooved gold pumpkins' sheen And apples' palest green Are small gay suns, whose light ...

Green days wound when magpies start to nest and wagtails soar with hawks, when pipits dart from bush to bush, and the blue range looks its best, for each wind that blows the leaves blows unrest into my heart. As ...

There is creative glory as it was In the beginning of created things. The potter shapes his vase, the painter paints In imitation of the aeon-day When life itself became an oracle. But there is ecstasy of colour: clay: The ...

The crested heron flies over the lake, Lower and lower falling with down-stretched legs Slanting to the waiting water; she touches, And starts ripples in widening circles, like water lilies Unrolling their edges and staring at the sun. She sits ...

It was such fun, with lantern light agleam, to hollow out the night of years and dream again, again, again of canefields washed by rain, and we two strolling arm in arm from riverside to farm, past crushing mills a ...

If you would smash my volley at the net— Strings to the court! Come on! If it were cricket, Is my renown inglorious where the tall Grey wall, the steeple shadow stooping cool An August English pitch, oh leafy fall ...