The New Republic

I declare myself guilty of not having made, with these hands they gave me, a broom. Why have I made no broom? Why was I given hands? READ MORE >>

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With Misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That noblesness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? READ MORE >>

We said: “The sun’s gone, it is dusk, the full moon tops that giant spruce.” We said: “Our lips launch clouds, the snow’s cold crunch is brittle.” “In dusk’s rinsed blue and moon’s rinsed glacial light this forest hour,” we said, “has the vast dream-stillness of our shadows.” READ MORE >>

 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 >>

Muses and fetishes, particular And patronizing gods, myths and those men That to past darkness have been many a star. Seeing how our encumbered regimen Has all our pride and heart, have given a wide Berth to the corners of our chosen field And left us to our busy heart and pride. Left us the frenzy which we chose for shield. Stretch out no arms, look with no sorry eyes Into their world, we being given to this. Black steel, piled stone and the rigidities That keep you safe your mouth should sweeten to kiss. READ MORE >>

To Llewellyn Powys I. The Landing The great ship, lantern-girdled, The tender standing by; The waning stars, cloud-shrouded, The land that we descry. That pale land is our homeland, And we are bound therefor: On her lawns nor in her coppice No birds as yet make stir. But birds are flying round us, The white birds of the sea— It is the breeze of morning. This that comes hummingly. READ MORE >>

I have seen, O desolate one, the voice has its tower, The voice also, builded at secret cost. Its temple of precious tissue. Not silent, then. Forever. Casting silence in your hour. There marble boys are leant from the light throat Thick locks that hang with dew, and eyes dew-lashed, Dazzled with morning, angels of the wind, With ear a-point to the enchanted note. READ MORE >>

Why is there not a dragon in the sea With orange fins and purple fangs, Of monstrous length and mighty girth, Whose spume and opalescent Jet could be A blazing fright where water clangs Along the coasts of Earth?  Through fire importuning the moon to thrust Its scythe at last to garner flame Cold phoenix throngs could hover. The world should be a ball of golden dust; Each of its creatures then might claim A more resplendent lover.  READ MORE >>