First Known When Lost

In my previous post, we visited my favorite April poem: Patrick Kavanagh's " Wet Evening in April. "  A poem haunted by melanc...

I'm certain I'm not the only young man or woman whose budding interest in poetry was quickened by happening upon the following lines...

I am an escapist.  The past month I've spent a great deal of time in 17th century Japan in the company of Gensei, a Buddhist monk-poet, ...

As I have noted here before, a poem that has moved us remains with us, and can return at any time, unexpectedly and unaccountably. Last nigh...

Recently I've been spending time with The Oxford Book of Greek Verse in Translation .  Published in 1938, and edited by T. F. Higham and...

Last week the first crocuses appeared: two clumps of light purple, dark purple, and white flowers in the muddy far corner of a neighbor'...

The Saturday before last was a changeable day.  Lines of dark rain squalls moved from the southwest to the northeast across Puget Sound, fol...

A distant, recurring sound on an autumn night.  A human sound, redolent, mysterious, evanescent.              In Early Autumn, Alone at Nigh...

As I have remarked here in the past, the feeling that the world is going to Hell in a hand-basket is a timeless feature of human nature. The...

Toward the end of November, the robins begin to gather in small flocks for the winter.  One hears the sound of constant twittering in a dist...