Contraction
Honest self-scrutiny too easily mutinies,
mutates into false memories
Which find language a receptive host, . . .
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The Convergence of the Twain
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity, . . .
Conversation
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say. . . .
Cool Tombs
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin ... in the dust, in the cool tombs.
And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes ... in the dust, in the cool tombs.
. . .
A Country Boy in Winter
The wind may blow the snow about,
For all I care, says Jack,
And I don’t mind how cold it grows,
. . .
A Country Incident
Absorbed in planting bulbs, that work of hope,
I was startled by a loud human voice,
“Do go on working while I talk. Don’t stop!”
. . .
Courtesy
It is an afternoon toward the end of August:
Autumnal weather, cool following on,
And riding in, after the heat of summer, . . .
The Craftsman
I ply with all the cunning of my art
This little thing, and with consummate care
I fashion it—so that when I depart,
Those who come after me shall find it fair . . .
Crepuscule with Muriel
Instead of a cup of tea, instead of a milk-
silk whelk of a cup, of a cup of nearly six
o'clock teatime, cup of a stumbling block, . . .
The Cross of Snow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face — the face of one long dead —
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head . . .
