contemporary poetry

beautiful, tragical faces
not from the whole wide world
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
world that changes under my hand
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
gone are the three, those sisters rare
why do
do i like it
the meadow was creeping
sweet splendor
if i should die, think only this of me
the agony of having too much power
soft as the bed in the earth
babylon-where i go dreaming