A soft whoosh, the sunset blaze
of straw on blackened stubble,
a thatch-deep, freshing

That so priceless patience gone
Into these fragments of fret
Intact where the gay figure

“It was your fault! It was your fault!” cried the Peacock.
“And it was yours too,” whispered the Snake.

“It was lust! It was lust!” shouted the Peacock.

In black and green and white one candle burns
Upon some pages, under a lute that leans
Against a wall. Outside the window pine

      Tourists would photograph
The sky’s long ribs in their eagerness 
     To snatch the whole

                 Passengers will please refrain
            from flushing toilets while the train
         is standing in the station. I love you.

My dear, your lids are weary;
Lower them, rest your eyes—
As though some languid pleasure

                                Early and late‚
                                Though turning grief
  May twist at springing love or halfpast life,

As a young man I was headstrong, willful, rash,
      Determined to amaze,
Grandly indifferent to comfort as to cash,

There in the shrine at Lourdes 
Embellished with old crutches, splints, and canes 
(Freely abandoned by the cured,