Turn to yon vale beneath, whose tangled shade
Excludes the blazing torch of noon-day light,
Where sportive Fawns, and dimpled Loves invite,
The bow’r of Pleasure opens to the glade:
Lull’d by soft flutes, on leaves of violets laid,
There witching beauty greets the ravish’d sight,
More gentle than the arbitress of night
In all her silv’ry panoply array’d! Devamını Oku
It’s the mountain from which
the tributaries spring: self, self, self, self–
rivering up
on curling plumes
from his elaborate
head-piece
of smoke. Devamını Oku
Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things
From earth to star;
Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and
Over the border the bar.
Though rank and fierce the mariner
Sailing the seven seas,
He prays as he holds his glass to his eyes,
Coaxing the Pleiades. Devamını Oku
Two decommissioned highways cross
and continue toward their borders
with the casual certainty
the dead carry in their sample cases.
Leaning against the wind
I notice tufts of fur in the air
and a driveshaft rising from the sand,
then the horsehair of a violinist’s bow
drawn steadily across my neck. Devamını Oku
What is there left to do during a truce, but look at boys
swinging swords at the trunks of trees? Devamını Oku
Let them be, the battles you fought, in silence.
Bury your shame, the worst you thought, in silence. Devamını Oku
Leigh Hunt born on October 19, 1784 in London, Leigh Hunt is the author of The Story of Rimini and Hero and Leander. A friend to Shelley and Keats, Hunt died on August 28, 1859. Devamını Oku
Your names toll in my dreams.
I pick up tinsel in the street. A nameless god
streaks my hand with blood. I look at the lighted trees
in windows & the spindles of pine tremble
in warm rooms. The flesh of home, silent. Devamını Oku
