The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
Fog by Carl Sandburg
1
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
I dwell in Possibility -- A fairer House than Prose -- More numerous of Windows -- Superior -- for doors -- Of Chambers as the Cedars -- Impregnable of eye -- And for an everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky -- Of Visitors -- the fairest -- For Occupation -- This -- The spreading wide of my narrow Hands To gather Paradise --
Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry: Expanded Anniversary Edition by Jim Harrison
The Ghetto, and Other Poems: An Annotated Edition by Lola Ridge
American Poetry: A Very Short Introduction by David Caplan
Cotton Candy: Poems Dipped Out of the Air by Ted Kooser
The Heart of American Poetry by Edward Hirsch