1939

1938

1937

1936

1935

1934
We are the deceivers;
We hide in the sun of hours
Borne with a still face.
Were re-acquaintance made
With a day's motion
What mask would fall,
What new-lit surface show?

1933

1932

1931

1930

1929

1928

1927

1926
In the time of fever
May all things seem
At once close and far,
Unattainable,
And the measure of oneself.

1925

1924

1923

1922

1921

1921
The evaporation of a salt drop
Conjecture:
The absent clock
Ticks still the quiet room
In the daily air where your voice
Is in expectation heard;
More still
Makes that complex space
Where a thought's the same as a tear.

1920

1919

1918

1917

1916

1915

1914

1913

1912