BUT, Snake, you must not come wh… For you would tempt us; we should… ‘Oh, somewhere was a world was col… And voiceless; somewhere was a Be… Engrossed with substance, with no…

THERE is an hour, they say, On which your dream has power: Then all you wish for comes, As comes the lost field-bird Down to the island-lights;

UP from the navel of the world, Where Cuzco has her founts of fir… The passer of the Gulf he comes. He lives in air, a bird of fire, Charted by flowers still he comes

STRIDE the hill, Sower, Up to the sky ridge, Flinging the seed, Scattering, exultant! Mouthing great rhythms

HERE Pilate’s Court is: None may clatter nor call Where the Wolf giving suck To the Twins glares on all ‘Strip Him and scourge Him

SANDALWOOD, you say, and in y… With Tyre and Solomon; to me it r… With places bare upon Pacific mou… With spaces empty in the minds of… Sandalwood!

O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and al… The heaped up sods against the fir… The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and c…

I. THE PARROT AND THE F… MY Afghan poet-friend With this made his message end, ‘The scroll around my wall shows t… The parrot and falcon they

WITH sapphire for her crown, And with the Libyan wine For lustre of her eyes; With azure on her feet As though she trod the skies;

Of the Irish, Paris THE Lombards having gone back to… We, who might never flock to nativ… Except like birds that fly like fu… Desperately, in a wind across the…

As I went down through Dublin cit… At the hour of twelve of the night… Who did I see but a Spanish lady Washing her feet by candle light. First she washed them,

Jesus His Mother meets: She looks on Him and sees The Savior in Her Son: The Angel’s word comes back: Within her heart she says,

IN woods remote, hid in the mount… Doves there are that have a gentle… Doves that are marked as by a poet… And hence are called Doves of the… And such ye were, and we could nev…

In The Farmer’s House I’M glad to lie on a sack of leav… By a wasted fire and take my ease. For the wind would strip me bare a… The wind would blow oul’ age upon…

THE City clocks point out the ho… They look like moons on their dark… And I who was shown my destinatio… Thrice, but have no sense of locat… Am back again at one or the other