Laura Riding Jackson

Find and share the perfect poems. What is beheld through glass seems glass. The quality of what I am Encases what I am not, Smooths the strange world. I perceive it slowly In my time, In my material, As my pride, As my possession: The vision is love. When life crashes like a cracked pane, Still shall I love Even the slight grass and the patient dust. Death also sees, though darkly, And I must trust then as now Only another kind of prism Through which I may not put my hands to touch.

Skip to main content Find and share the perfect poems. The spring has many sounds: Roller skates grind the pavement to noisy dust. Birds chop the still air into small melodies. The wind forgets to be the weather for a time And whispers old advice for summer. The sea stretches itself And gently creaks and cracks its bones…. The spring has many silences: Buds are mysteriously unbound With a discreet significance, And buds say nothing. There are things that even the wind will not betray.