And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.
— Robert Frost, from “Stars”
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
— W. B. Yeats, from “The Two Trees”
You weave a spell,
I wear it on my back,
and though the chilly stars
go bone naked
we are clothed.
— Linda Pastan, from “At the Loom”
I think of a struck bell,
how it resonates through ribs and spine,
as your voice rings in me.
— Laura Grace Weldon, from “Tearing Down the Schoolhouse,” in Tending
While on and on and on, the sparrow sings.
— Mary Oliver, from “Truro, the Blueberry Fields”
[You have bursts and lapses,
you have words — you walk
and wait.] Your blood
is love — that’s all.
— Cesar Pavese, from “Two Poems for T.”
, trans. Geoffrey Brock