Washington, Augustus
on a prancing horse,
sword pointing toward sunset.
Over the pond,
fringed with ice,
droop the weeping willows.
And what I miss most
in the pine-blanketed West:
leafless trees in cold sunshine.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Notes on Anosmia
One morning several years ago, as my wife, Wendy, and I were having breakfast together, I had…
Empire of Unreality
Shiva Naipaul (1945–1985) was the author of three novels and two books of mordant dispatches from places…
The Dreadful Christ of Pär Lagerkvist
It’s dangerous to meet a god,” says the disgraced Pythia in Pär Lagerkvist’s The Sibyl. Her observation…
