Death will wait until you come.

Old heartbreaks are old wine. Too new to pour is mine.

That night from a dingy hotel room, I saw the moon, like a golden gong.

My heart is a little painted poem.

Up with the pale important stars and the Humorous moon.

The ivory teeth within the jaw rattled aloud, like dice.

Piercing my poor brain with beauty, a fiery dart.

The wet wind hums its colorless refrain.

I would wander with you to the ends of all creation.

Lemonade and ice cream, sitting poolside on an endless summer day.

Starvation danced with me.

I am glad for my heart whose gates apart are the entrance-place of wonders.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun . . .

But on this line alone, the poet has toiled a million years or more.

The black waves moaned and broke unutterably on a stern cliff where hand in hand we stood.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay like metals in a mine.

The drowsy grasses droop -- The night wind falls.

The drops ran down as slow as fate.

The earth is the cup of the sun, that filleth at morning.