From the bedroom you can see
straight to the fringe of the woods
with a cross-staved gate to re-

When I enter hell, almost out of habit
I’ll shout Aspasia! at the first ghost who smiles.

on which the lunar spring descends‚
blanching every shard with halo splendor,
chips of broken cones, sheen

Probably
evening is falling. Not because of the years,
which are numerous, but because the play

It was where the wooden bridge
crosses to Porto Corsini on the open sea
and a few men, in slow motion, lower