The best Author's Poems

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The falling dew is cold and chill,
And no bird sings in Arcady,
The little fauns have left the hill,
Even the tired daffodil
Has closed its gilded doors, and still
My lover comes not back to me.
False moon! False moon! O waning moon!
Where is my own true lover gone,
Where are the lips vermilion,
The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon?
Why spread that silver pavilion,
Why wear that veil of drifting mist?
Ah! thou hast young Endymion,
Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

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Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows If yonder daffodil had
lured the bee Into its gilded womb, or any rose Had hung with
crimson lamps its little tree!
Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring, But for the lovers' lips
that kiss, the poet's lips that sing

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When the moon comes out
bells mute
and paths seem
impenetrable.
When the moon comes out
the sea covers the earth
and the heart becomes
an island in infinity.

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For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.

Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.

And now I know that we must lift the sail
and catch the winds of destiny
wherever they drive the boat.

To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
but life without meaning is the torture
of restlessness and vague desire,
it is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.
.

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You can't resist love
because the hands want to own the beauty
and not stun years of silence.
Because love is living two-thousand dreams
until the sublime kiss.

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But we have left those gentle haunts to pass
With weary feet to the new Calvary,
Where we behold, as one who in a glass
Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,
And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze
Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.

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Employed against my will by the factory of ideas
I refused to clock in
Likewise mobilised in the army of ideas
I deserted.

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The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'

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Let us honour if we can
The vertical man
Though we value none
But the horizontal one.

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An onion is something else.
It doesn't have any innerds.
Until its onioness.
Oniony outside,
oniony to the heart,
it could look within itself
without feeling any fear.
In us the unknown and forests
of flesh just covered,
infernal innerds,
violent anatomy,
but within the onion - onion,
not contorted bowels.
She is time and time again naked,
till the end and so on.
The onion is coherent,
the onion is realized.
In one there's the other,
in the biggest the smallest,
meaning the third and the fourth.
A centripetal flight.
A composed echo in a choir.
The onion, okay:
the most beautiful belly in the world.
To itself of auras
it wraps around itself.
In us - fat, nerves, veins,
muchus ad secretions.
And to us is negated
the idiocy of perfection.