Green Fields (William Stanley Merwin Poems)
By this part of the century few are left who believein the animals for they are not there in the ...
By this part of the century few are left who believein the animals for they are not there in the ...
In the long evening of April through the cool lightBayle's two sheep dogs sail down the lane like magpiesfor the ...
The friends have gone home far up the valleyof that river into whose estuarythe man from England sailed in his ...
While I think of them they are growing rareafter the distances they have followedall the way to the end for ...
When I was beginning to read I imaginedthat bridges had something to do with birdsand with what seemed to be ...
Gray whaleNow that we are sinding you to The EndThat great godTell himThat we who follow you invented forgivenessAnd forgive ...
It was a late book given up for lostagain and again with its sentencesbare at last and phrases that seemed ...
Duporte the roofer that calm voicethose sure hands gentling weathered tilesinto new generations orhalf of him rising through a rooflike ...
Why did he promise methat we would build ourselvesan ark all by ourselvesout in back of the houseon New York ...
What is the headA. AshWhat are the eyesA. The wells have fallen in and haveInhabitantsWhat are the feetA. Thumbs left ...
Now that you have caught sightof the other side of darknessthe invisible sideso that you can tellit is risingfirst thing ...
Naturally it is night.Under the overturned lute with itsOne string I am going my wayWhich has a strange sound.This way ...
It is March and black dust falls out of the booksSoon I will be goneThe tall spirit who lodged here ...
In the eveningall the hours that weren't usedare emptied outand the beggars are waiting to gather them upto open themto ...
How long ago the day iswhen at last I look at itwith the time it has takento be there still ...
Every year without knowing it I have passed the dayWhen the last fires will wave to meAnd the silence will ...
The cold slope is standing in darknessBut the south of the trees is dry to the touchThe heavy limbs climb ...
There are threads of old sound heard over and overphrases of Shakespeare or Mozart the slenderwands of the auroras playing ...
Your absence has gone through meLike thread through a needle.Everything I do is stitched with its color.(William Stanley Merwin)
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