Photo & Poem Gallery

Winter has come.
The white yatsude flowers have disappeared,
The gingko trees are like brooms.

Winter, piercing as a gimlet, has come.

Great carnal mountains crouching in the cloud
That marrieth the young earth with a ring,
Yet still its thoughts builds heavenward, whence spring
Wee villages of vapor, sunset-proud.—

In the quiet misty morning when the moon has gone to bed,
When the sparrows stop their singing, and the sky is clear and red,
When the summer’s ceased its gleaming, when

Rest you by this various planet
or lounge in the sky lounge 
be my guest I'll take you there 
& introduce you around & show 

We’ve just been introduced,
I do not know you well;
But when the music started,
Something drew me to your side.

If I create from the heart, nearly everything works:
if from the head, almost nothing.

Could be Hastings Street, 
Or Lenox Avenue,
Could be 18th & Vine
And still be true.

Could be 5th & Mound,
Could be Rampart:
When you pawned my watch
You pawned my heart.

Could be you love me,
Could be you don’t.

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
   Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
   Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree 
Toward heaven still, 
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill 
Beside it, and there may be two or three 
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. 
But I am done with apple-picking now. 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,