def poetry

the air is like a butterfly
the old songs
he'd even have his joke
i went up and down the streets
we break the glass whose sacred wine
i see all human wits
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
we who stood
glooms of the live-oaks
rose and amber was the sunset on the river
winged shadows sweeping by
i saw the clouds among the hills