I am the father of no country 
And can lie.
But whether mendacity 

i believe you, i
believe you. but 
tho you be the fool, 

Not the turmoil, the togas, the color TVs in the Forum—
he gawked at them with the eyes of a bumpkin,
but he smiled at them too. The tree.

One is solicitous of it
as a unique Himalayan rosebud
smuggled out of Nepal.

Be reticent and elegant,
Twist the opal on your hand,
Turn your pale eyes on me,

“The August heat invades my lady’s chamber:
Italian afternoons, madame, are long,
And life more passionate, and lust less wrong,

My artifice you thought designed
    For another end;
You have your own inventions, and

Love poems (and what have I of yours
But one you did not send for jealousy,
And all my own?)

Bright sunlight! And the summer is a sword
Goading our sense; the very times conspire
With us to pierce that beauty; such a youth

He never flies except toward spilling blood.