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Best Famous Pavement Poems

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The Last Leaf

I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.


They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.


But now he walks the streets,
And looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone.
"

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.


My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago—
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.


I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so *****!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

Written by Philip Larkin |

Church Going

Once i am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside letting the door thud shut.

Another church: matting seats and stone 
and little books; sprawlings of flowers cut
For Sunday brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense musty unignorable silence 
Brewed God knows how long.
 Hatless I take off
My cylce-clips in awkward revrence 

Move forward run my hand around the font.

From where i stand the roof looks almost new--
Cleaned or restored? someone would know: I don't.

Mounting the lectern I peruse a few
hectoring large-scale verses and pronouce
Here endeth much more loudly than I'd meant
The echoes snigger briefly.
 Back at the door
I sign the book donate an Irish sixpence 
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.


Yet stop I did: in fact I often do 
And always end much at a loss like this 
Wondering what to look for; wondering too
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show 
Their parchment plate and pyx in locked cases 
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.

Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or after dark will dubious women come
To make their children touvh a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games in riddles seemingly at random;
But superstition like belief must die 
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass weedy pavement brambles butress sky.


A shape less recognisable each week 
A purpose more obscure.
 I wonder who
Will be the last the very last to seek
This place for whta it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber randy for antique 
Or Christmas-addict counting on a whiff
Of grown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative 

Bored uninformed knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation--marriage and birth 
And death and thoughts of these--for which was built
This special shell? For though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth 
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is 
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet 
Are recognisd and robed as destinies.

And that much never can be obsolete 
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious 
And gravitating with it to this ground 
Which he once heard was proper to grow wise in 
If only that so many dead lie round.


1955

Written by Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden |

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
 And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
 'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
 'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.
'
 But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
 'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
 'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
 'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
 'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
 'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
 'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
 'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
 'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.
'
 It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

Written by Billy Collins |

Man Listening To Disc

 This is not bad --
ambling along 44th Street
with Sonny Rollins for company,
his music flowing through the soft calipers
of these earphones,

as if he were right beside me
on this clear day in March,
the pavement sparkling with sunlight,
pigeons fluttering off the curb,
nodding over a profusion of bread crumbs.


In fact, I would say
my delight at being suffused
with phrases from his saxophone --
some like honey, some like vinegar --
is surpassed only by my gratitude

to Tommy Potter for taking the time
to join us on this breezy afternoon
with his most unwieldy bass
and to the esteemed Arthur Taylor
who is somehow managing to navigate

this crowd with his cumbersome drums.

And I bow deeply to Thelonious Monk
for figuring out a way
to motorize -- or whatever -- his huge piano
so he could be with us today.


This music is loud yet so confidential.

I cannot help feeling even more
like the center of the universe
than usual as I walk along to a rapid
little version of "The Way You Look Tonight,"

and all I can say to my fellow pedestrians,
to the woman in the white sweater,
the man in the tan raincoat and the heavy glasses,
who mistake themselves for the center of the universe --
all I can say is watch your step,

because the five of us, instruments and all,
are about to angle over
to the south side of the street
and then, in our own tightly knit way,
turn the corner at Sixth Avenue.


And if any of you are curious
about where this aggregation,
this whole battery-powered crew,
is headed, let us just say
that the real center of the universe,

the only true point of view,
is full of hope that he,
the hub of the cosmos
with his hair blown sideways,
will eventually make it all the way downtown.

Written by Walt Whitman |

Faces

 1
SAUNTERING the pavement, or riding the country by-road—lo! such faces! 
Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality; 
The spiritual, prescient face—the always welcome, common, benevolent face, 
The face of the singing of music—the grand faces of natural lawyers and judges, broad
 at
 the
 back-top; 
The faces of hunters and fishers, bulged at the brows—the shaved blanch’d faces
 of
 orthodox citizens;
The pure, extravagant, yearning, questioning artist’s face; 
The ugly face of some beautiful Soul, the handsome detested or despised face; 
The sacred faces of infants, the illuminated face of the mother of many children; 
The face of an amour, the face of veneration; 
The face as of a dream, the face of an immobile rock;
The face withdrawn of its good and bad, a castrated face; 
A wild hawk, his wings clipp’d by the clipper; 
A stallion that yielded at last to the thongs and knife of the gelder.
 

Sauntering the pavement, thus, or crossing the ceaseless ferry, faces, and faces, and
 faces: 
I see them, and complain not, and am content with all.


2
Do you suppose I could be content with all, if I thought them their own finale? 

This now is too lamentable a face for a man; 
Some abject louse, asking leave to be—cringing for it; 
Some milk-nosed maggot, blessing what lets it wrig to its hole.
 

This face is a dog’s snout, sniffing for garbage;
Snakes nest in that mouth—I hear the sibilant threat.
 

This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea; 
Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go.
 

This is a face of bitter herbs—this an emetic—they need no label; 
And more of the drug-shelf, laudanum, caoutchouc, or hog’s-lard.


This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry, 
Its veins down the neck distended, its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites, 
Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the turn’d-in nails, 
The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground while he speculates well.
 

This face is bitten by vermin and worms,
And this is some murderer’s knife, with a half-pull’d scabbard.
 

This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee; 
An unceasing death-bell tolls there.
 

3
Those then are really men—the bosses and tufts of the great round globe! 

Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creas’d and cadaverous march?
Well, you cannot trick me.
 

I see your rounded, never-erased flow; 
I see neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.
 

Splay and twist as you like—poke with the tangling fores of fishes or rats; 
You’ll be unmuzzled, you certainly will.


I saw the face of the most smear’d and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum; 
And I knew for my consolation what they knew not; 
I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother, 
The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement; 
And I shall look again in a score or two of ages,
And I shall meet the real landlord, perfect and unharm’d, every inch as good as
 myself.
 

4
The Lord advances, and yet advances; 
Always the shadow in front—always the reach’d hand bringing up the laggards.
 

Out of this face emerge banners and horses—O superb! I see what is coming; 
I see the high pioneer-caps—I see the staves of runners clearing the way,
I hear victorious drums.
 

This face is a life-boat; 
This is the face commanding and bearded, it asks no odds of the rest; 
This face is flavor’d fruit, ready for eating; 
This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.


These faces bear testimony, slumbering or awake; 
They show their descent from the Master himself.
 

Off the word I have spoken, I except not one—red, white, black, are all deific; 
In each house is the ovum—it comes forth after a thousand years.
 

Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me;
Tall and sufficient stand behind, and make signs to me; 
I read the promise, and patiently wait.
 

This is a full-grown lily’s face, 
She speaks to the limber-hipp’d man near the garden pickets, 
Come here, she blushingly cries—Come nigh to me, limber-hipp’d
 man,
Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you, 
Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me, 
Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my breast and shoulders.
 

5
The old face of the mother of many children! 
Whist! I am fully content.


Lull’d and late is the smoke of the First-day morning, 
It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences, 
It hangs thin by the sassafras, the wild-cherry, and the cat-brier under them.
 

I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree, 
I heard what the singers were singing so long,
Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue, 

Behold a woman! 
She looks out from her quaker cap—her face is clearer and more beautiful than the
 sky.
 

She sits in an arm-chair, under the shaded porch of the farmhouse, 
The sun just shines on her old white head.


Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, 
Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the
 wheel.
 

The melodious character of the earth, 
The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go, and does not wish to go, 
The justified mother of men.

Written by Charlotte Bronte |

Frances

 SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, 
But, rising, quits her restless bed, 
And walks where some beclouded beams 
Of moonlight through the hall are shed.


Obedient to the goad of grief, 
Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, 
In varying motion seek relief 
From the Eumenides of woe.


Wringing her hands, at intervals 
But long as mute as phantom dim 
She glides along the dusky walls, 
Under the black oak rafters, grim.


The close air of the grated tower 
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, 
And, though so late and lone the hour, 
Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;

And on the pavement, spread before 
The long front of the mansion grey, 
Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, 
Which pale on grass and granite lay.


Not long she stayed where misty moon 
And shimmering stars could on her look, 
But through the garden arch-way, soon 
Her strange and gloomy path she took.


Some firs, coeval with the tower, 
Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head, 
Unseen, beneath this sable bower, 
Rustled her dress and rapid tread.
 

There was an alcove in that shade, 
Screening a rustic-seat and stand; 
Weary she sat her down and laid 
Her hot brow on her burning hand.


To solitude and to the night, 
Some words she now, in murmurs, said; 
And, trickling through her fingers white, 
Some tears of misery she shed.


' God help me, in my grievous need, 
God help me, in my inward pain; 
Which cannot ask for pity's meed, 
Which has no license to complain;

Which must be borne, yet who can bear, 
Hours long, days long, a constant weight 
The yoke of absolute despair, 
A suffering wholly desolate ?

Who can for ever crush the heart, 
Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? 
Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, 
With outward calm, mask inward strife ?'

She waitedas for some reply;
The still and cloudy night gave none; 
Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, 
Her heavy plaint again begun.
 

' UnlovedI love; unweptI weep; 
Grief I restrainhope I repress: 
Vain is this anguishfixed and deep; 
Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.


My love awakes no love again, 
My tears collect, and fall unfelt; 
My sorrow touches none with pain, 
My humble hopes to nothing melt.


For me the universe is dumb, 
Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; 
Life I must bound, existence sum 
In the strait limits of one mind;

That mind my own.
 Oh ! narrow cell; 
Darkimagelessa living tomb ! 
There must I sleep, there wake and dwell 
Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.
'

Again she paused; a moan of pain, 
A stifled sob, alone was heard; 
Long silence followedthen again, 
Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.


' Must it be so ? Is this my fate ?
Can I nor struggle, nor contend ?
And am I doomed for years to wait,
Watching death's lingering axe descend ? 

And when it falls, and when I die, 
What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? 
The blank of lost identity ? 
Erasure both of pain and bliss ?

I've heard of heavenI would believe; 
For if this earth indeed be all, 
Who longest lives may deepest grieve, 
Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.


Oh ! leaving disappointment here, 
Will man find hope on yonder coast ? 
Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, 
And oft in clouds is wholly lost.


Will he hope's source of light behold, 
Fruition's spring, where doubts expire, 
And drink, in waves of living gold, 
Contentment, full, for long desire ?

Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? 
Rest, which was weariness on earth ? 
Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed, 
Served but to prove it void of worth ?

Will he find love without lust's leaven, 
Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, 
To all with equal bounty given, 
In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ? 

Will he, from penal sufferings free, 
Released from shroud and wormy clod, 
All calm and glorious, rise and see 
Creation's SireExistence' God ?

Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes, 
Will he behold them, fading, fly; 
Swept from Eternity's repose, 
Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ?

If soendure, my weary frame; 
And when thy anguish strikes too deep, 
And when all troubled burns life's flame,
Think of the quiet, final sleep;

Think of the glorious waking-hour, 
Which will not dawn on grief and tears, 
But on a ransomed spirit's power, 
Certain, and free from mortal fears.


Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, 
Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, 
With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, 
But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.


And when thy opening eyes shall see
Mementos, on the chamber wall,
Of one who has forgotten thee,
Shed not the tear of acrid gall.
 

The tear which, welling from the heart, 
Burns where its drop corrosive falls, 
And makes each nerve, in torture, start, 
At feelings it too well recalls:

When the sweet hope of being loved, 
Threw Eden sunshine on life's way; 
When every sense and feeling proved 
Expectancy of brightest day.


When the hand trembled to receive 
A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, 
And the heart ventured to believe,
Another heart esteemed it dear.


When words, half love, all tenderness, 
Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, 
When the long, sunny days of bliss, 
Only by moonlight nights were broken.


Till drop by drop, the cup of joy 
Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, 
And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high, 
Still never dreamt the overflowing.


It fell not with a sudden crashing, 
It poured not out like open sluice; 
No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, 
Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice.
 

I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, 
My eager lips approached the brim; 
The movement only seemed to waste it, 
It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim.


These I have drank, and they for ever 
Have poisoned life and love for me; 
A draught from Sodom's lake could never 
More fiery, salt, and bitter, be.


Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion; 
Joy, but the desert's flying stream; 
And, glancing back on long delusion,
My memory grasps a hollow dream.


Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, 
I never knew, and cannot learn, 
Nor why my lover's eye, congealing, 
Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern.


Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, 
He careless left, and cool withdrew; 
Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, 
Nor even one glance of comfort threw.


And neither word nor token sending,
Of kindness, since the parting day,
His course, for distant regions bending,
Went, self-contained and calm, away.
 

Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, 
Which will not weaken, cannot die, 
Hasten thy work of desolation, 
And let my tortured spirit fly !

Vain as the passing gale, my crying; 
Though lightning-struck, I must live on; 
I know, at heart, there is no dying 
Of love, and ruined hope, alone.


Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour, 
Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, 
And many a storm of wildest rigour 
Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough.


Rebellious now to blank inertion, 
My unused strength demands a task; 
Travel, and toil, and full exertion, 
Are the last, only boon I ask.


Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming 
Of death, and dubious life to come ? 
I see a nearer beacon gleaming 
Over dejection's sea of gloom.


The very wildness of my sorrow 
Tells me I yet have innate force; 
My track of life has been too narrow, 
Effort shall trace a broader course.
 

The world is not in yonder tower, 
Earth is not prisoned in that room, 
'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, 
I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom.


One feelingturned to utter anguish, 
Is not my being's only aim; 
When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, 
But courage can revive the flame.


He, when he left me, went a roving
To sunny climes, beyond the sea; 
And I, the weight of woe removing, 
Am free and fetterless as he.


New scenes, new language, skies less clouded,
May once more wake the wish to live; 
Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, 
New pictures to the mind may give.


New forms and faces, passing ever, 
May hide the one I still retain, 
Defined, and fixed, and fading never, 
Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain.


And we might meettime may have changed him;
Chance may reveal the mystery,
The secret influence which estranged him;
Love may restore him yet to me.
 

False thoughtfalse hopein scorn be banished ! 
I am not lovednor loved have been; 
Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, 
Traitors ! mislead me not again !

To words like yours I bid defiance, 
'Tis such my mental wreck have made; 
Of God alone, and self-reliance, 
I ask for solacehope for aid.


Morn comesand ere meridian glory
O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile, 
Both lonely wood and mansion hoary 
I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning |

From ‘The Soul's Travelling'

 God, God! 
With a child’s voice I cry, 
Weak, sad, confidingly— 
God, God! 
Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up 
Unto Thy love (as none of ours are), droop 
As ours, o’er many a tear! 
Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad, 
Two little tears suffice to cover all: 
Thou knowest, Thou, who art so prodigal 
Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer 
Expiring in the woods—that care for none 
Of those delightsome flowers they die upon.
 

O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath 
We name our souls, self-spoilt!—by that strong passion 
Which paled Thee once with sighs,—by that strong death 
Which made Thee once unbreathing—from the wrack 
Themselves have called around them, call them back, 
Back to Thee in continuous aspiration! 
For here, O Lord, 
For here they travel vainly,—vainly pass 
From city-pavement to untrodden sward, 
Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass 
Cold with the earth’s last dew.
 Yea, very vain 
The greatest speed of all these souls of men 
Unless they travel upward to the throne 
Where sittest THOU, the satisfying ONE, 
With help for sins and holy perfectings 
For all requirements—while the archangel, raising 
Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing, 
Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings.

Written by Henry Lawson |

When Your Pants Begin to Go

 When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn't white, 
And you cannot sleep for thinking how you'll reach to-morrow night, 
You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms with Care, 
And as yet be unacquainted with the Demon of Despair; 
For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind 
Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch behind.
 

I have noticed when misfortune strikes the hero of the play, 
That his clothes are worn and tattered in a most unlikely way; 
And the gods applaud and cheer him while he whines and loafs around, 
And they never seem to notice that his pants are mostly sound; 
But, of course, he cannot help it, for our mirth would mock his care, 
If the ceiling of his trousers showed the patches of repair.
 

You are none the less a hero if you elevate your chin 
When you feel the pavement wearing through the leather, sock, and skin; 
You are rather more heroic than are ordinary folk 
If you scorn to fish for pity under cover of a joke; 
You will face the doubtful glances of the people that you know; 
But -- of course, you're bound to face them when your pants begin to go.
 

If, when flush, you took your pleasures -- failed to make a god of Pelf, 
Some will say that for your troubles you can only thank yourself -- 
Some will swear you'll die a beggar, but you only laugh at that, 
While your garments hand together and you wear a decent hat; 
You may laugh at their predictions while your soles are wearing low, 
But -- a man's an awful coward when his pants begin to go.
 

Though the present and the future may be anything but bright, 
It is best to tell the fellows that you're getting on all right, 
And a man prefers to say it -- 'tis a manly lie to tell, 
For the folks may be persuaded that you're doing very well; 
But it's hard to be a hero, and it's hard to wear a grin, 
When your most important garment is in places very thin.
 

Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you best, 
That your sorrows won't run over in the presence of the rest; 
There's a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to whine, 
He'll declare your coat is tidy, and he'll say: `Just look at mine!' 
Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesn't show, 
And he'll swear it can't be noticed when your pants begin to go.
 

Brother mine, and of misfortune! times are hard, but do not fret, 
Keep your courage up and struggle, and we'll laugh at these things yet, 
Though there is no corn in Egypt, surely Africa has some -- 
Keep your smile in working order for the better days to come! 
We shall often laugh together at the hard times that we know, 
And get measured by the tailor when our pants begin to go.
 

.
.
.
.
.
.
 

Now the lady of refinement, in the lap of comfort rocked, 
Chancing on these rugged verses, will pretend that she is shocked.
 
Leave her to her smelling-bottle; 'tis the wealthy who decide 
That the world should hide its patches 'neath the cruel look of pride; 
And I think there's something noble, and I swear there's nothing low, 
In the pride of Human Nature when its pants begin to go.

Written by Audre Lorde |

Making Love To Concrete

 An upright abutment in the mouth
of the Willis Avenue bridge
a beige Honda leaps the divider
like a steel gazelle inescapable
sleek leather boots on the pavement
rat-a-tat-tat best intentions
going down for the third time
stuck in the particular

You cannot make love to concrete
if you care about being
non-essential wrong or worn thin
if you fear ever becoming
diamonds or lard
you cannot make love to concrete
if you cannot pretend
concrete needs your loving

To make love to concrete
you need an indelible feather
white dresses before you are ten
a confirmation lace veil milk-large bones
and air raid drills in your nightmares
no stars till you go to the country
and one summer when you are twelve
Con Edison pulls the plug
on the street-corner moons Walpurgisnacht
and there are sudden new lights in the sky
stone chips that forget you need
to become a light rope a hammer
a repeatable bridge
garden-fresh broccoli two dozen dropped eggs
and a hint of you
caught up between my fingers
the lesson of a wooden beam
propped up on barrels
across a mined terrain

between forgiving too easily
and never giving at all.

Written by Robert Browning |

De Gustibus---

 I.


Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain)
In an English lane,
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.

Hark, those two in the hazel coppice---
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
Making love, say,---
The happier they!
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,
And let them pass, as they will too soon,
With the bean-flowers' boon, 
And the blackbird's tune,
And May, and June!

II.


What I love best in all the world
Is a castle, precipice-encurled,
In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine
Or look for me, old fellow of mine,
(If I get my head from out the mouth
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,
And come again to the land of lands)---
In a sea-side house to the farther South,
Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,
And one sharp tree---'tis a cypress---stands,
By the many hundred years red-rusted,
Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,
My sentinel to guard the sands
To the water's edge.
 For, what expands
Before the house, but the great opaque
Blue breadth of sea without a break?
While, in the house, for ever crumbles
Some fragment of the frescoed walls,
From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.

A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles
Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons,
And says there's news to-day---the king
Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,
Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:
---She hopes they have not caught the felons.

Italy, my Italy!
Queen Mary's saying serves for me---
(When fortune's malice
Lost her---Calais)---
Open my heart and you will see
Graved inside of it, ``Italy.
''
Such lovers old are I and she:
So it always was, so shall ever be!