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As I have mentioned here in the past, each day I read a poem in the morning and a poem in the evening. This was today's morning poem: Autumn EndsLost in vacant wonder at how …
The swallows have departed. The tall, dry meadow grass rustles in the nearly empty air. Now and then a sparrow suddenly flutters up from beside the path, then flies off toward the trees surrounding the …
This modest (and, of late, fitful) undertaking owes its name to Edward Thomas. I expressed my thanks to him (accompanied by the touching elegy "To E. T.: 1917" written by his friend Walter de la …