An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still,
Wherewith, alas, I have been long possess'd, . . .
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Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign grace
Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit,
Whilst I in darkness in the self-same place . . .
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, . . .
An idle lingerer on the wayside's road,
He gathers up his work and yawns away;
A little longer, ere the tiresome load . . .
she would see . . .
To prepare the body,
aim for the translucent perfection
you find in the sliced shavings . . .
Come live with me
And we will sit
. . .
Touching your goodness, I am like a man
Who turns a letter over in his hand
And you might think this was because the hand . . .
It's the Fourth of July, the flags
are painting the town,
the plastic forks and knives . . .
I speak this poem now with grave and level voice
In praise of autumn, of the far-horn-winding fall.
. . .