We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or an old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

Death is the mother of beauty

That strange flower, the sun, Is just what you say. Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.

Take from the dresser of deal, Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet On which she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face. If her h…

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.

She has no strong white arms to fold you, But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you - Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?