By a wall that circles the three Ch'in districts, In a mist that makes five rivers one, We bid each other a sad farewell, We two official wanderers. . . . And yet, while the Four Seas bind our friendship And heaven remains our neighborhood [...]
Snow whitens mountains westward and the forts of three cities, Waters from the southern lakes flash on miles of bridge; Wind and dust from sea to sea shut me from my brothers;
Dark water, underground, Beneath the rock and clay, Beneath the roots of trees, Moved into common day, Rose from a mossy mound In mist that sun could seize.
The fine rain coiled in a cloud Turned by revolving air Far from that colder source Where el [...]
PERMIT the stubborn bone that hives content and sorrow, rage and dream, foreknowledge of the blow that drives apart the cunning-jointed seam. Permit the doomed skull time to free the brain's bright swarm of gold and black: let air reclaim each velvet [...]
With Elinor Wylie the poet—I mean, with the poet who wrote in verse—I plan no traffic. I can find in her verses nothing very remarkable, but then that has for many years been my attitude toward everyone's verses, all the long way from Hesiod's and Pindar's to Mr. Edgar Guest's and my own.
This land is heavy with sleeping generations Of young forefathers who thrust back the hills And cleared their pastures of blackberry blossoms, planting
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