This is the house. On one side there is darkness, On one side there is light. Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns, O, any number, it will still be night....
You see that porcelain ranged there in the window, Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges!...
Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones....
We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,...
From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees The soft blue starlight through the one small window, The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus, And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. ...
What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; You smile a little. . . .Outside, the night goes by. I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . ....
Now, when the moon slid under the cloud And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, He heard in his blood the well-known bell Tolling slowly in heaves of sound, Slowly beating, slowly beating,...
The half-shut doors through which we heard that music Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence. The stars whirl out, the night grows deep. Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain...
'This envelope you say has something in it Which once belonged to your dead son, or something He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers? The soul flies far, and we can only call it...
The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly Towards the dazzling street. Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing....
Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,...
He, in the room above, grown old and tired, She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling, Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light, And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . ....
No, I shall not say why it is that I love you, Why do you ask me, save for vanity? Surely you would not have me, like a mirror, Say 'yes, your hair curls darkly back from the temples,...
As evening falls, The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, Moving like music, secret and rich and warm. How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn?...
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night....
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: And lights wink out through the windows, one by one....
The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. The city stirs like one that is half in dream. ...
As evening falls, And the yellow lights leap one by one Along high walls; And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, The muted city seems...
'This envelope you say has something in it Which once belonged to your dead son, or something He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers? The soul flies far, and we can only call it...
When Britain really ruled the waves (In good Queen Bess's time) The House of Peers made no pretence To intellectual eminence, Or scholarship sublime; Yet Britain won her proudest bays...