Richard Wilbur Poems

St. John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast,
The water-pots poured wine in such amount
That by his sober count
There were a hundred gallons at the least.
...

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
...

I.
Kick at the rock, Sam Johnson, break your bones:
But cloudy, cloudy is the stuff of stones.
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The tall camels of the spirit
Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud
With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the
arid
...

For Alexander there was no Far East,
Because he thought the Asian continent
India ended. Free Cathay at least
Did not contribute to his discontent.
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R.Frost 100th B'day

The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In wet dull pastures where I strolled
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for Rene Magritte

The carpenter's made a hole
In the parlor floor, and I'm standing
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It's not the case, though some might wish it so
Who from a window watch the blizzard blow

White riot through their branches vague and stark,
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Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark,
Who round with grace this dusky arc
Of the grand tour which souls must take.
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Rabbi, we Gadarenes
Are not ascetics; we are fond of wealth and possessions.
Love, as You call it, we obviate by means
Of the planned release of aggressions.
...