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A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined;
A record of my pain and of your praise,
Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays,
These tear-stained flowers of a poet's mind

Thy petals yet are closely curled,
Rose of the world,
Around their scented, golden core;
Nor yet has Summer purpled o'er Thy tender clusters that begin To swell within The dewy vine-leaves' early screen Of sheltering green

The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—

The war is in words and the wood is the
That turns beneath our rootless feet;the vines that reach, alive and snarled,
Across the path where the sand is swirled,
Twist in the night

I spot the
With yellow balls in autumn
I light the prairie
Orange and tawny gold

I never loved a dear Gazelle—Nor anything that cost me much:
High prices profit those who sell,
But why should I be fond of such
To glad me with his soft black

A certain day became a presence to me;there it was, confronting me—a sky, air, light:a being
And before it started to descendfrom the height of noon, it leaned overand struck my shoulder as if withthe flat of a sword, granting mehonor and a t...