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I have seen the proudest stars That wander on through space, Even the sun and moon, But not your face. I have heard the violin, The winds and waves rejoice in endless minstrelsy, Yet not your voice. I have touched the trillium, Pale flower of the land, Coral, anemone, And not your hand. I have kissed the shining feet Of Twilight lover-wise, Opened the gates of Dawn— Oh not your eyes! I have dreamed unwonted things, Visions that witches brew, Spoken with images, Never with you.

To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

It isn’t madness but shame for wanting and shame for not having what I want, which is a kind of madness—drunk, 3 a.m., the stairwell too steep to climb. The bed can wait. I go to the pool instead, strip and step in, the smell of smoke and sweat washing from hair and skin. The wet kiss: his mouth pressed here, my neck, and there, my chest—in the end—went nowhere. Cars pass with coupled strangers. I wade. The brick wall stretches into the sky, the sky empty, save the constellations, whose lives I love—yours most of all, father of poets, whose lyre filled trees and stones with awe, the lover torn to shreds and thrown in to the river. Tonight, you’re the swan, lost among pinholes of light, your throat bitten by a black hole that takes and takes and never fills. I kick, stroke my tired arms to buoy this body. It makes ring after perfect ring, but each one breaks along the edge. You who never were, did you look down on the world at last and see that more won’t be enough? Not now. Not ever. Want picks the human heart. You’re the lie I won’t believe forever.

To our land, and it is the one near the word of god, a ceiling of clouds To our land, and it is the one far from the adjectives of nouns, the map of absence To our land, and it is the one tiny as a sesame seed, a heavenly horizon ... and a hidden chasm To our land, and it is the one poor as a grouse’s wings, holy books ... and an identity wound To our land, and it is the one surrounded with torn hills, the ambush of a new past To our land, and it is a prize of war, the freedom to die from longing and burning and our land, in its bloodied night, is a jewel that glimmers for the far upon the far and illuminates what’s outside it ... As for us, inside, we suffocate more!

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold; Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told, Or stair, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile, And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while. Thou joy’st in better marks, of soil, of air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport; Thy mount, to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made, Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade; That taller tree, which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met. There in the writhèd bark are cut the names Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames; And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke The lighter fauns to reach thy Lady’s Oak. Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there, That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed; The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies; and the tops, Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sidney’s copse, To crown thy open table, doth provide The purpled pheasant with the speckled side; The painted partridge lies in every field, And for thy mess is willing to be killed. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, Fat aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As loath the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously at first themselves betray; Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land Before the fisher, or into his hand. Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry, with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come; The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They’re reared with no man’s ruin, no man’s groan; There’s none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves in plum or pear. But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provisions, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know; Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat, Without his fear, and of thy lord’s own meat; Where the same beer and bread, and selfsame wine, This is his lordship’s shall be also mine, And I not fain to sit (as some this day At great men’s tables), and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy, But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; He knows below he shall find plenty of meat. The tables hoard not up for the next day; Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there, As if thou then wert mine, or I reigned here: There’s nothing I can wish, for which I stay. That found King James when, hunting late this way With his brave son, the prince, they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came With all their zeal to warm their welcome here. What (great I will not say, but) sudden cheer Didst thou then make ’em! and what praise was heaped On thy good lady then, who therein reaped The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but dressed As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Thy lady’s noble, fruitful, chaste withal. His children thy great lord may call his own, A fortune in this age but rarely known. They are, and have been, taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence. Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Read in their virtuous parents’ noble parts The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

Does not mean silence. The absence of moon in the day sky for example. Does not mean barely to speak, the way a child's whisper makes only warm air on his mother's right ear. To play pianissimo is to carry sweet words to the old woman in the last dark row who cannot hear anything else, and to lay them across her lap like a shawl.

My poems: fledglings, heirs, Plaintiffs and executors, The silent ones, the loud, The humble and the proud. As soon as the shovel of time Threw me onto the potter’s wheel— Myself without kith or kin— I grew beneath the hand, a miracle. Something stretched out my long neck And hollowed round my soul And marked on my back Legends of flowers and leaves. I stoked the birch in the fire As Daniel commanded And blessed my red temper Until I spoke as a prophet. I had long been the earth— Arid, ochre, forlorn since birth— But you fell on my chest by chance From beaks of birds, from eyes of grass.

Far from the tender Tribe of Boys remove, For they’ve a thousand ways to kindle Love. This, pleases as he strides the manag’d Horse, And holds the taughten’d Rein with early Force; This, as he swims, delights thy Fancy best, Raising the smiling Wave with snowy Breast: This, with a comely Look and manly Airs; And that with Virgin Modesty ensnares. But if at first you find him not inclin’d To Love, have Patience, Time will change his Mind. * And you, what’er your Fav’rite does, approve, For Condescension leads the Way to love. Go with him where he goes, tho’ long the Way, And the fierce Dog-star fires the sultry Day; Or the gay Rainbow girds the bluish Sky, And threatens rattling Show’rs of Rain are nigh. If sailing on the Water by his Will, Then steer the Wherry with a dext’rous Skill: Nor think it hard Fatigues and Pains to bear, But still be ready with a willing Cheer. If he’ll inclose the Vales for savage Spoils, Then on thy Shoulders bear the Nets and Toils; If Fencing be the Fav’rite Sport he’ll use, Take up the Files, and artlessly oppose; Seem as intent, yet oft expose your Breast, Neglect your Guard, and let him get the best; Then he’ll be mild, then you a Kiss may seize, He’ll struggle, but at length comply with ease; Reluctant, tho’ at first you’ll find him grow Ev’n fond, when round your Neck his Arms he’ll throw.

There is delight in singing, tho’ none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, tho’ the praiser sit alone And see the prais’d far off him, far above. Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world’s, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walkt along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

Less lonely, less . . . I gave you a tiny box. You lifted the lid, praised the usefulness of my gift: a silver pin shaped like an amper- sand. As you fastened it to your lapel, I thought again of that motel outside of Chicago. ¿Te acuerdas? I sat on the edge of a bench, untied my shoes. Face down, eyes shut, you breathed in the aroma of sweat & allspice coming off the sheets. I tossed my ring—gold, inscribed—toward a pile of clothes. But the ring dropped in the small of your back where it rattled & rattled like a coin in a beggar’s cup.