We sit and talk,quietly, with long lapses of silenceand I am aware of the streamthat has no language, coursingbeneath the quiet heaven ofyour eyeswhich has no speech

This is Just to Say I have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe iceboxand whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfastForgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold

It is difficultto get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lackof what is found there.

You lethargic, waiting upon me,waiting for the fire and Iattendant upon you, shaken by your beautyShaken by your beauty Shaken.

It is at the edge of the petal that love waits

Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.

But the seawhich no one tendsis also a garden

so much dependsupona red wheelbarrowglazed with rainwaterbeside the whitechickens.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.