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The Giver of Stars

The Temple



Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success

In Answer to a Request



Poppy Seed

The Great Adventure of Max Breuck



Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris

After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok



Clear, with Light, Variable Winds

The Basket



In a Castle

The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde



The Exeter Road

The Shadow



The Forsaken

Late September



The Pike

The Blue Scarf



White and Green

Aubade



Music

A Lady



In a Garden

A Tulip Garden



Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

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Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

A drifting, April, twilight sky,



A wind which blew the puddles dry,

And slapped the river into waves



That ran and hid among the staves

Of an old wharf. A watery light



Touched bleak the granitebridge, and white

Without the slightest tinge of gold,



The city shivered in the cold.

All day my thoughts had lain as dead,



Unborn and bursting in my head.

From time to time I wrote a word



Which lines and circles overscored.

My table seemed a graveyard, full



Of coffins waiting burial.

I seized these vile abortions, tore



Them into jagged bits, and swore

To be the dupe of hope no more.



Into the evening straight I went,

Starved of a day's accomplishment.



Unnoticing, I wandered where

The city gave a space for air,



And on the bridge's parapet

I leant, while pallidly there set



A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.

Behind me, where the tramways run,



Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave,

When someone plucked me by the sleeve.



"Your pardon, Sir, but I should be

Most grateful could you lend to me



A carfare, I have lost my purse."

The voice was clear, concise, and terse.



I turned and met the quiet gaze

Of strange eyes flashing through the haze.



The man was old and slightly bent,

Under his cloak some instrument



Disarranged its stately line,

He rested on his cane a fine



And nervous hand, an almandine

Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine



It burned in twisted gold, upon

His finger. Like some Spanish don,



Conferring favours even when

Asking an alms, he bowed again



And waited. But my pockets proved

Empty, in vain I poked and shoved,



No hidden penny lurking there

Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare






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