In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity, . . .
- View 3 Lines
- View Titles Only
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say. . . .
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. . . .
Here is where
You can get nowhere
Faster than ever . . .
The wind may blow the snow about,
For all I care, says Jack,
And I don’t mind how cold it grows, . . .
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!” . . .
It is an afternoon toward the end of August:
Autumnal weather, cool following on,
And riding in, after the heat of summer, . . .
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 . . .
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 senseless leaf in the fevered hand
Grows hot, near blood-heat, but never grows
Green. Weeks ago the dove’s last cooing strain . . .