Yvor Winters Poems
|1.||A Song In Passing||1/3/2003|
|3.||An October Nocturne||1/3/2003|
|4.||At The San Francisco Airport||3/24/2004|
|5.||By The Road To The Air Base||1/3/2003|
|9.||Much In Little||4/19/2010|
|10.||Night Of Battle||4/19/2010|
|11.||On A View Of Pasadena From The Hills||4/19/2010|
|12.||On Teaching The Young||4/19/2010|
|13.||One Ran Before||1/3/2003|
|14.||Sir Gawaine And The Green Knight||4/19/2010|
|16.||Sonnet To The Moon||1/3/2003|
|17.||The Empty Hills||1/3/2003|
|22.||The Slow Pacific Swell||4/19/2010|
|23.||Time And The Garden||4/19/2010|
|24.||To A Young Writer||4/19/2010|
|25.||To Emily Dickinson||4/19/2010|
|26.||To The Holy Spirit||1/3/2003|
|27.||Two Songs Of Advent||1/3/2003|
|28.||Where My Sight Goes||1/3/2003|
At The San Francisco Airport
This is the terminal: the light
Gives perfect vision, false and hard;
The metal glitters, deep and bright/
Great planes are waiting in the yard-
They are already in the night.
And you are here beside me, small.
Containted and fragile, and intent
On things that I but half recall-
Yet going whither you are bent.
I am the past, and that is all.
But you and I in part are one:
The frightened brain, the nervous will,
The knowledge of what must be done,
The passion to acquire the skill
To face that which you dare not shun.
The rain of ...
I, one who never speaks,
Listened days in summer trees,
Each day a rustling leaf.
Then, in time, my unbelief
Grew like my running -
My own eyes did not exist,
When I struck I never missed.
Noon, felt and far away -
My brain is a thousand bees.