Composed in the Tower before his execution
These moving verses, and being brought at that time
Painfully to the stake, submitted, declaring thus:
"I implore my God to witness that I have made no crime."

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. "More Light! More Light!" (L. 1-4). . . Oxford Book of War Poetry, The. Jon Stallworthy, ed. (1984) Oxford University Press.)

But all the time he was talking she had in mind
The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck.

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The Dover Bitch (l. 9-11). . . Oxford Book of American Light Verse, The. William Harmon, ed. (1979) Oxford University Press.)

Samuel Sewall, in a world of wigs,
Flouted opinion in his personal hair;
For foppery he gave not any figs,
But in his right and honor took the air.

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. Samuel Sewall (l. 1-4). . . Norton Book of Light Verse, The. Russell Baker, ed. (1986) W. W. Norton & Company.)

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, "Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc."

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The Dover Bitch (l. 1-5). . . Oxford Book of American Light Verse, The. William Harmon, ed. (1979) Oxford University Press.)

A great black presence beats its wings in wrath.
Above the boneyard burn its golden eyes.
Some small grey fur is pulsing in its grip.

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The End of the Weekend (l. 24-26). . . Faber Book of Modern Verse, The. Michael Roberts, ed. (4th ed. revised by Peter Porter, 1982) Faber and Faber.)

The eventual shapes of all our formless prayers,
This dark, this cabin of loose imaginings,
Wind, lake, lip, everything awaits
The slow unloosening of her underthings.

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The End of the Weekend (l. 13-16). . . Faber Book of Modern Verse, The. Michael Roberts, ed. (4th ed. revised by Peter Porter, 1982) Faber and Faber.)

If the heart has its reasons, perhaps the body
Has its own lumbering sort of carnal spirit,
Felt in the tingling bruises of collision,
And known to captains as esprit de corps.

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The Feast of Stephen (l. 15-18). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)

an endless wind
Whips at the headstones of the dead and wails
In the trees for all who have and have not sinned.

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The End of the Weekend (l. 8-10). . . Faber Book of Modern Verse, The. Michael Roberts, ed. (4th ed. revised by Peter Porter, 1982) Faber and Faber.)

Mens sana in men's sauna, in the flush
Of health and toilets, private and corporal glee,

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The Feast of Stephen (l. 21-22). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)

Think of those barren places where men gather
To act in the terrible name of rectitude,
Of acned shame, punk's pride, muscle or turf,
The bully's thin superiority.

(Anthony Hecht (b. 1923), U.S. poet. The Feast of Stephen (l. 29-32). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)