Midsummer and no moon. Low beams on the dry highway. And that twang from a silver disk? It's Sister Rosetta Tharpe On her gitbox, raw voice argufying for the Lord. I no longer know what music suits me. For some moods, The skeletal airs of oboe and bassoon. And then I give in To a pigfoot piano, to the bark of a swollen saxophone. Sometimes beauty becomes so neurotic it can't look at itself. In the arc of the car, maybe I've taken the last wrong turn, Gravel ...

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Blue, blue is the sea to-day, Warmly the light Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay -- Blue, fringed with white. That's no December sky! Surely 'tis June Holds now her state on high, Queen of the noon. Only the tree-tops bare Crowning the hill, Clear-cut in perfect air, Warn us that still Winter, the aged chief, Mighty in power, Exiles the tender leaf, Exiles the flower. Is there a heart to-day, A heart that grieves For flowers that fade away, For fallen leaves? Oh, not in leaves or flowers Endures the charm That clothes those naked towers With love-light warm. O dear St. Andrews Bay, Winter ...

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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee; A poet could not be but ...

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