poetry anthology

two rows of cabbages
there by the window in the old house
sun stepped down from his golden throne
stuff of the moon
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
high-born race
perhaps it is no matter that you died
she heard the children playing in the sun
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
brief on a flying night
splendid and terrible your love
simplicity
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies