1731
1730
1729
1728
1727
1726
1725
Make this thing without your worth,
And empty be;
The morning sun that new-sets a world's
Fine tracery
Is not yours,
For its currency has no name.
No receptivity as fine
In what it perceives
Serves your phantom'd sight,
That wants what is not there.
1724
1723
1722
1721
1717
Because the wind is high
I ache to breathe in the space between
What sees and what is seen,
As if all time were stopping there,
As if an earth were sky
That choked fictitious emotion.
1716
1715
1714
1713
1712
As a lace of marble
Unworn by years
Signs grace and fluid stillness
To an eye that yearns,
So once there is a way
To show what is hidden
Will art know its reflection,
If it be to reflect.
