1819

1818

1817
A season is turning in
And nods above the last leaf:
A frame of sun alive
In a sheen of wood
That moves stillness.
Sleep, season,
Your book is done,
Memoried by those weathering still.

1816

1815

1814

1813

1812
Stop
Is a motion assailed
By another a way contending
Most mutually created.
Start's necessity,
Creatured in poised thought
And servant limb;
Anvil and bell of all quality.

1811

1810

1809

1808
Listen
To the silence to be
In the unmarked score of stillness.
The sweeter unheard's
Partner ecstasy
Is shorter than time,
And longer too.

1807

1806

1805

1804

1803

1802

1801

1800
Look:
A swift's wings
At once serve its desire
And make addition to my name;
Such flights unpurposed
Arc in the air in an eye
That will unnature
Nature's sky and motion
To the height of a separate resolution
For one memory's estate.

1799

1798

1797

1796

1795

1794

1793

1792

1791

1790
The interior voice does go on
With every hour's mismeasure
Of the names of things.
Mayhap if in a space
That itself speaks is this self-voice
Still for another's season,
Right-angled to the world.

1789

1788

1787

1786

1785
That action is a fashion
That bids its interior face
Receive a public eye;
For every tone of sensibility's range
Has its own design,
And the stamp of the house
Is but to its bearer known:
Display this mark
To fit another's measure
And diminished be,
Though but you can see.

1784

1783

1782

1781

1780

1779

1778

1777

1776

1775

1774

1773

1772

1771
When let go from pedestrian
Insensate necessity,
What remains
Is the plain organic
Present's lightness in sense--
That frame of air
And correspondent window
Twixt without and within.