Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing . . .
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On this most perfect hill
with these most perfect dogs
are these most perfect people . . .
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached . . .
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—
My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing, . . .
There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly ,
And should you thousand ages try
The life you've taken to supply, . . .
They in their cruel traps, and we in ours,
Survey each other’s rage, and pass the hours
Commiserating each the other’s woe, . . .
A thousand martyrs I have made,
All sacrificed to my desire;
A thousand beauties have betrayed, . . .
In the laboratory waiting room
one television actor with a teary face . . .
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown . . .
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain; . . .