[On my birthday] At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat
I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo
The tumult in the heart keeps asking questions.
Out on the high "bird islands," Ciboux and Hertford, the razorbill auks and the silly-looking puffins all stand
On the unbreathing sides of hills they play, a specklike girl and boy,
Days that cannot bring you near or will not,
For Louise Crane In your next letter I wish you'd say
Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery:
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must be over that way somewhere.
I can make out the rigging of a schooner a mile off; I can count
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying.
Caught -- the bubble in the spirit level,
Across the floor flits the mechanical toy, fit for a king of several centuries back.
I live only here, between your eyes and you, But I live in your world. What do I do?
The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow
The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles
The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot,
[On my birthday] At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me
I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat
I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo
The tumult in the heart keeps asking questions.
Out on the high "bird islands," Ciboux and Hertford, the razorbill auks and the silly-looking puffins all stand
On the unbreathing sides of hills they play, a specklike girl and boy,
Days that cannot bring you near or will not,
For Louise Crane In your next letter I wish you'd say
Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery:
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must be over that way somewhere.
I can make out the rigging of a schooner a mile off; I can count
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying.
Caught -- the bubble in the spirit level,
Across the floor flits the mechanical toy, fit for a king of several centuries back.
I live only here, between your eyes and you, But I live in your world. What do I do?
The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow
The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles
The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot,