1917

1916

1915

1914

1913

1912

1911

1910

1909

1908

1907

1906

1905

1904

1903

1902

1901

1900

1899
Scarfs of blue,
Of blue scapes cohere
With a present essence.
The wind makes a voice
Of the green myriads
With a flexing hiss.
Red bolts of sky unfurl,
But indifferently as if
By the new sun's disdain
For color, for mindful occurrence,
For nature making a shape of sound.

1898

1897

1896

1895

1894

1893

1892

1891
A different artistry
Is not there.
A flame whose scent
Folds years
Burns with no recollection:
In elemental shallows
Is this a field before words,
Where suns spin and matters
Change state;
It wants no art
Being art's conception,
Whose creature's pluck beauty from the air.

1890

1889

1888

1887

1886

1885

1884

1883

1882
What terror to hold an angle
Of oneself that but itself
It sees:  it outscales death
In time's ceaseless present,
When breath's unwarranted
As well as all in all.

1881

1880

1879

1878

1877

1876

1875
Twixt eye and day
Is complicity;
The inscape of the seer
Is writ in what is seen:
So will a leaf and blade of grass
Wink to a passerby,
And a confederate tree
Lean to shade the sun.

1874

1873

1872

1871

1870

1869