If any have a stone to throw It is not I, ever or now

In masks outrageous and austere, The years go by in single file; But none has merited my fear, And none has quite escaped my smile.

The winter will be short, the summer long,The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,Tasting of cider and of scuppernong.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,Like midsummer moths, and honied words like...

In masks outrageous and austere The years go by in single file; But none has merited my fear, And none has quite escaped my smile

I am better able to imagine hell than heaven; it is my inheritance, I suppose