The New Republic

 The Race's Splendor The race's splendor lifts her lip, exposes Amid her scarlet smile her little teeth; The years are sand the wind plays with; beneath The prisoned music of her deathless roses. Within frostbitten rock she's fixed and glassed; Now man may look upon her without fear. But her contemptuous eyes back through him stare And shear his fatuous sheep when he has passed. READ MORE >>

  (A review of The Road Back, by Erich Maria Remarque) There is a victory beyond defeat which the victorious know nothing of. A bourne, a shore of refuge beyond the lost battles, the bronze names and the lead tombs, guarded and indicated not by the triumphant and man-limbed goddess with palm and sword, but by some musing and motionless handmaiden of despair itself. READ MORE >>

I follow through the singing trees Her streaming clouded hair and face And lascivious dreaming knees Like gleaming water from some place Of sleeping streams, or autumn leaves Slow shed through still, love-wearied air. She pauses: and as one who grieves Shakes down her blown and vagrant hair To veil her face, but not her eyes-- A hot quick spark, each sudden glance, Or like the wild brown bee that flies Sweet winged, a sharp extravagance Of kisses on my limbs and neck. She whirls and dances through the trees READ MORE >>