light and dark alone are waste
The Uselessness of the Common or Garden Variety of Experience
Sometimes I hardly know which one of us I am
The morning fills me as a running river is filled with sunbeams
You call me back when I recall the past
All this talk! And maybe if I lived
The organ plays in a thousand arching churches
The danger of feeling is in this, that
This brooding weather of warm mists, grey showers
Sometimes when it gets too much
I have no tears for you, lovers
The heights of the yellow hills are straight
the apartment is falling to ruin
I am death. I steal upon old men
I have determined by lessening
Sleek and stiff and new the horse gallops
inscription under a woman poets photograph