Poetry

The lust of the sailor for new lands, the lust of the boat new-launched for the turbulent, foaming, sky-running waters— […]

Like a polished pearl hid in a pocket, Like lighted tapirs set in the murk of a crypt, Like the

The door is ajar— The door of my soul swung on the hinges of doubt; It is ever ajar and

Here where the forces elemental circle me, caress me and touch my city-scattered parts to a whole; Here on the

Glow, glow, thou yellow fire, mother of me—thou shalt reclaim me body and soul. Shine, shine, thou pulsing white eyes

What was its mandate? Where is the script IT placed in my hand? Who sent me on this strange errand?

They pass through my brain and leave not a mark: cities and women and autumnal skies. I am related to

O thou pinioned Thought, where wilt thou wing me to-night? Dug from the marl and silt of my soul, Breath