A white, fine skull, full up with darkness
And only heralded to the gaudy spring
A female, aged about twenty-two
And tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding
And the rustling blood
But as the riper should by time decease
A bag of six-inch nails
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes
Dogs barked for me
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel
A tractor broke open the grave
From fairest creatures we desire increase
I heard the hooters blowing up and down the valley
His tender heir might bear his memory
I follow my mother in from the car
If this was America I’d stop running
In the night he was delirious, shouting of lions
Like stiff new boots
Making a famine where abundance lies
Officially described as a steelworker
On Sundays they play tennis in the park
Owain was ill today
Pity the world or else this glutton be
Seeing only our reflections in bottomless pools
She is a tree in winter
Sing me a tin-bath song
Some plague or violence came
Ten years ago, my father
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die
The mathematics of sunshine
The poorest house in the street
The women come with baskets
The wood has rotted, the mud has won
There is bleeding in Newport
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
We were sitting having tea
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self so cruel
When a stream of visitors arrived
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
We stare at each other, dark into dark
Within thine own bud buriest they content
White on a black sky
A buzzard watches
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