Read out my words at night, alone: I was a poet, I was young

The poet’s business is not to save the soul of man but to make it worth saving.

West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go, / Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young star-captains glow.

Half to forget the wandering and pain,/ Half to remember days that have gone by,/ And dream and dream that I am home again!

It was so old a ship – who knows, who knows? / And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain / To see the mast burst open with a rose / And the whole deck...

For one night or the other night / Will come the Gardener in white, and gathered flowers are dead, Yasmin.

A ship, an isle, a sickle moon – / With few but with how splendid stars / The mirrors of the sea are strewn / Between their silver bars.

What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus. / Men are unwise and curiously planned.

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep / Beyond the village which men still call Tyre.

And with great lies about his wooden horse/ Set the crew laughing and forgot his course.

When the great markets by the sea shut fast / All that calm Sunday that goes on and on: / When even lovers find their peace at last,/ And Earth is but a star, that...

For pines are gossip pines the wide world through.

Neon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,Beauty she was statue cold – there’s blood upon her gown.