dilluns, 1 d’agost de 2011

Stephen Spender

Never being, but always at the edge of being
My head, like Death-mask into the sun.
The shadow poiting finger across cheek,
I move lips for tasting,I  move hans for touching,
But never am nearer than touching
Thoug the spirit lean outward for seeing.
Observing rose , gold, eyes, an admired landscape,
My senses record the act of wishing,
Whishing to be
Rose, gold, lands cape or anothes.
I claim fulfilment in the fact of loving

New collected poems
                                         Stephen Spender


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