I sought a theme and sought for it in vain, I sought it daily for six weeks or so. Maybe at last being but a broken man I must be satisfied with my heart, although Winter and summer till old age began My circus animals...
That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music...
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning; A kind old nun in a white hood replies; The children learn to cipher and to sing, To study reading-books and history, To cut and sew, be neat in everything In the best modern way—the children's eyes In momentary...
I met the Bishop on the road And much said he and I. `Those breasts are flat and fallen now Those veins must soon be dry; Live in a heavenly mansion, Not in some foul sty.'
`Fair and foul are near of kin, And fair needs foul,'...
'Because I am mad about women I am mad about the hills,' Said that wild old wicked man Who travels where God wills. 'Not to die on the straw at home, Those hands to close the eyes, That is all I ask, my dear, From the old...
In springtime, chief of all seasons, in May when new joys rise and flourish, the sun is lord and messenger at once and sends down to us to rouse our bodies and be merry: humankind to...
Lately, my friends ask me, out of love, have I written about my mother, who suffers under the storm of Alzheimer’s disease, and I tell them, “I don’t write about my family, never directly, at least.” To write this poem seems so