poetry form

this is the arsenal
the hypocritic days
under a spreading chestnut tree
rose and amber was the sunset on the river
dark-eyed
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
now that i have cooled to you
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
there is an hour of peaceful rest
in the cloud-gray mornings
see i give myself to you
the saddest of the year