It’s easy to think of Christina Rossetti (1830–1894) as a caricature of her own extremes: morbid and (as other of her poems we have run in the Sun suggest) maybe a little hysterical, certainly strange ...

I’m writing this column in the earliest days of another spring, and here’s a fine spring poem from Rose King’s book “Time and Peonies,” from Hummingbird Press. The poet lives in California. a man in a ...