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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 …
Each morning, I read a poem. A long-time habit. I began a recent spring day with this: Tilling the field;From the temple among the trees, The funeral bell tolls.Buson (1716-1784) (translated by R. H. Blyth), …