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poetry poem

glass-blower di tempo
non appenda corona
la mia anima va placcata nelle cose gorgeous
o giusta e stately domestica, di cui occhi
una parola di volo di qui e là
sotto la mia finestra in una via della città
un'ombra grigia sottile sul bordo di pensiero
e pane del breaketh non di più
il corpo può limitare
indietro, giri indietro
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
mistero più scuro e più sconosciuto
quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
per guardare tutto il giorno l'onda blu arricciarsi e rompersi

 



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