My dead husband enters the home
To read the letters of love.
He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.
He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures’ blurry set.
Hasn’t had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?
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To The Londoners
(From the ‘In the Fortieth Year’)1940The twenty-fourth drama of ShakespeareTime’s writing with its indifferent hand.We, selves, the guests of the awful Feast here,Better would read Hamlet, Caesar, and LearOver the river, in heavy lead clad;Better – to bear, with singing and torches,Juliet, the dove, to her family’s graves,Peep into windows of Macbeth’s castle godless,Tremble with…
Thoughts of the sunlight fainter and dimmer,
Breezes, freh breezes at dawn’s early shimmer,Flit by repass.Look at the willows against a clear heaven,Cloudless and wide.Better, Far better not to be givenThee for thy bride!Thoughts of the daylight dimmer and fainter.Oh, darkness! Gloom!Once again . . . Morning,Tell me if winter is come.
I don’t like flowers – they do remind me often
Their presence on tables for a dinner calls.But sub-eternal roses’ ever simple charmWhich was my solace when I was a child,Has stayed – my heritage – a set of years behind,Like Mozart’s ever-living music’s hum.
I was born in the right time, in whole,
But great God did not let my poor soulLive without deceit on this earth.And therefore, it’s dark in my house,And therefore, all of my friends,Like sad birds, in the evening aroused,Sing of love, that was never on land.
Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
Faintly if at all the early snowflakesHover, hover.Water becoming ice is slowing inThe narrow channels.Nothing at all will happen here again,Will ever happen.Against the sky the willow spreads a fanThe silk’s torn off.Maybe it’s better I did not becomeYour wife.Memory of sun seeps from the heart.What is it? — Dark?Perhaps! Winter will have occupied usIn…
My breast grew helplessly cold,
I pulled the glove from my left handMistakenly onto my right.It seemed there were so many steps,But I knew there were only three!Amidst the maples an autumn whisperPleaded: ‘Die with me!I’m led astray by evilFate, so black and so untrue.’I answered: ‘I, too, dear one!I, too, will die with you…’This is a song of the…