Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet--
all this universe,
It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
She lay, and serving-men her lithe arms took,
And bound them round the withering old man,
The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
I have great faith in all things not yet spoken.
I want my deepest pious feelings freed.
What no o
Marveling he stands on the cathedral's
steep ascent, close to the rose window,
as though frightene
Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its so
Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what
invisible branch. Who, who gave you the push,
Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining hersel
She who did not come, wasn't she determined
nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
If we h
Along the sun-drenched roadside, from the great
hollow half-treetrunk, which for generations
Long before our time they called her old,
But she'd walk down the same road every day.
Her age bec
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind i
My room and this distance,
awake upon the darkening land,
are one. I am a string
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.
And reflected on the faded tapestries now;
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffus
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know wha
As once the winged energy of delight
carried you over childhood's dark abysses,
now beyond your ow
Come thou, thou last one, whom I recognize,
unbearable pain throughout this body's fabric:
as I in
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped
Behind the blameless trees
old fate slowly builds
her mute countenance.
Wrinkles grow there . . .