When I Am Asked
When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature. . . .
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When I Consider How My Light Is Spent
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide . . .
When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery, . . .
When You Are Old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look . . .
The White City
I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch . . .
The Widow’s Lament in Springtime
Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed . . .
The Windhover
I caught this morning morning's minionminion favorite, darling; also, an underling or servant, king-
dom of daylight's dauphindauphin prince; a French historical term, along with “chevalier”, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and . . .
Windows
When the cow died by the green sapling,
her limp udder splayed on the grass
like something from the sea, we offered . . .
Winter Remembered
Two evils, monstrous either one apart,
Possessed me, and were long and loath at going:
A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart, . . .
Without Regret
Nights, by the light of whatever would burn:
tallow, tinder and the silken rope
of wick that burns slow, slow . . .
