another all-star from a payap Norton

What would I do this year without anthologies? I found the following today, by John Malcolm Brinnin:

I couldn't sleep in that enormous echo--
silence and water music, sickly street lamps
neither on nor off--a night
of islands and forgotten languages.

Yet morning, marvelously frank, comes up
with bells, with loaves, with letters
distributed like gifts.



And from his translation of Jorge Carrera Andrade:

My ranch was space--
a province of azure sown with stars
as thick as wheat across a prairie.
Crook in hand, I tended my white flock.

Birds were my farmhands; my days
great baskets filled with harvestings,
sweet groves of beaming oranges.
Not even the sunset was more mellow ripe.