Photo & Poem Gallery

Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, Love, in Love's philosophy.
    These three hours that we have spent,
    Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produced.
But, now the sun is just above our head,

Tiptoe through the window
By the window, that is where I'll be
Come tiptoe through the tulips with me 
Oh, tiptoe from the garden 
By the garden of the willow tree 
And tiptoe through the tulips with me 
Knee deep in flowers we'll stray 

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride 
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Near the path through the woods I’ve seen it:
a trail of white candles.

I could find it again, I could follow
its light deep into shadows.

Didn’t I stand there once? 
Didn’t I choose to go back

In memory of Aleksei Navalny.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Dear March - Come in-
How glad I am-
I hoped for you before-
Put down your Hat-
You must have walked-
How out of Breath you are-
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest-
Did you leave Nature well-
O March, Come right upstairs with me-

It's a night like none
Of the rest: too much too soon,
Too little too late.

The night overflows
Its peace, so I follow fear
Beyond my insight.

Be still and behold
The moments that I fear most
Pass by in disguise.

Sports and gallantries, the stage, the arts, the antics of dancers,
The exuberant voices of music,
Have charm for children but lack nobility; it is bitter earnestness
That makes beauty; the mind
Knows, grown adult.
A sudden fog-drift muffled the ocean,

From a place in the kingdom of France
They brought the stained glass and the stones
to build on the island of Manhattan
these hollow Cloisters.
They are not apocryphal.
They are faithful monuments to a nostalgia.
An American voice tells us