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

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