The Garden by Moonlight A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight, Contented with perfume, Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies. Firefly lights open and vanish High as the tip buds of… Continue reading Amy Lowel
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world… Continue reading T. S. Eliot
Rhythm is a form cut into TIME, as a design is determined SPACE. — Ezra Pound, from “Treatise on Metre,” The Structure of Verse: Modern Essays on Prosody, ed. Harvey Gross (Ecco, 1996) Originally published August 1979.
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field the whole pageantry of the year was awake tingling near the edge of the sea concerned with itself sweating in the sun that melted the wings’ wax unsignificantly off the coast there was a… Continue reading William Carlos Williams
When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I… Continue reading Amy Lowell
In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin — T. S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets (Harcourt, 1943)
ix nearer: breath of my breath: take not thy tingling limbs from me: make my pain their crazy meal letting thy tigers of smooth sweetness steal slowly in dumb blossoms of new mingling: deeper: blood of my blood: with upwardcringing swiftness plunge these leopards of white dream in the glad flesh of my fear: more… Continue reading E. E. Cummings