Haze. Three student violists boarding
a bus. A clatter of jackhammers.
To go to Lvov. Which station
for Lvov, if not in a dream, at dawn, when dew
At first, I didn't notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at
On motorcycles, up the road, they come:
Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys
Sing, cuccu, nu. Sing, cuccu.
Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu, nu.
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
Robert Louis Stevenson
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
Robert Louis Stevenson
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,
And top with silver petals traced
The thick-walled room’s cave-darkness,
cool in summer, soothes
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
The first lily of June opens its red mouth.
All over the sand road where we walk
In those days I thought their endless thrum
was the great wheel that turned the days, the nights.
A. F. Moritz
one with the sun
Colorado turns Kyoto in a shower,
mist in the pines so thick the crows delight
William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
William Carlos Williams
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly
I once hit clothespins
for the Chicago Cubs.
The game of baseball is not a metaphor
and I know it’s not really life.
Adrift in the liberating, late light
of August, delicate, frivolous
Fires, always fires after midnight,
the sun depending in the purple birches
Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
The adolescent night, breath of the town,
Porchswings and whispers, maple leaves unseen
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late
Last night the apple trees shook and gave each lettuce a heart
Six hard red apples broke through the greenhouse glass and
Minnie Bruce Pratt
With this rain I am satisfied we will be together
in the spring. Seeds of water on my window glass
We had two gardens.
A real flower garden
Jim just loves to garden, yes he does.
He likes nothing better than to put on
I couldn't have waited. By the time you return
it would have rotted on the vine.
I leave the formal garden of schedules
where hours hedge me, clip the errant sprigs
Sleepy and suburban at dusk,
I learn again the yard’s
Whenever I see two women
crowned, constellated friends
A second crop of hay lies cut
and turned. Five gleaming crows
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
Naomi Shihab Nye
Spun silk of mercy,
Ellen Bryant Voigt
Like words put to a song, the bunched tobacco leaves
are strung along a stick, the women
Why were you born when the snow was falling?
You should have come to the cuckoo’s calling