Onehundredsixtynine

My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I...


Onehundredsixtyeight

I light this sympathetic flame,       My faintest wish that...


Onehundredsixtyseven

Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the...


Onehundredsixtysix

The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer From...