A poem is just a little machine for remembering itself … our memory of the poem is the poem.
The voice of a young man One sticks one's finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what…
Heredity I am the family face; Flesh perishes, I live on, Projecting trait and trace Through time to times anon,…
The Rolling English Road Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode, The rolling English drunkard made…