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| Pierre Subleyras Charon ferrying the Shades ca. 1735-40 oil on canvas Musée du Louvre |
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| Giandomenico Tiepolo Promenade ca. 1791 detached fresco (originally in the Tiepolo villa at Zianigo) Ca' Rezzonico, Venice |
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| Francisco Goya The Forge ca. 1819 oil on canvas Frick Collection, New York |
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| Caspar David Friedrich Woman at a Window (Caroline Friedrich, the artist's wife) 1822 oil on canvas Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin |
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| William Etty Candaules, King of Lydia, shews his Wife by stealth to Gyges as she goes to Bed ca. 1830 oil on canvas Tate Britain |
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| Frits Guldbrandsen A Student's Room ca. 1838 oil on paper, mounted on panel Scottish National Gallery, Edinburgh |
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| Martinus Rørbye Citadel Ramparts, Copenhagen by Moonlight 1839 oil on canvas Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York |
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| Honoré Daumier The Bathers ca. 1846-48 oil on panel Burrell Collection, Glasgow |
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| Edgar Degas Seaside Riders ca. 1860 oil on canvas National Gallery, London |
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| Hans von Marées The Orange Picker 1873 oil on canvas Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin |
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| William Morris Hunt The Bathers 1877 oil on canvas Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York |
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| Henri de Braekeleer Man at a Window ca. 1873-76 oil on canvas Musée Fin de Siècle, Brussels |
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| Paul Cézanne Bather ca. 1879-82 oil on canvas Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Pierre Puvis de Chavannes Girl by the Sea ca. 1882 oil on canvas Neue Pinakothek, Munich |
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| Jean-Léon Gérôme A Roman Slave Market ca. 1884 oil on canvas Walters Art Museum, Baltimore |
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| Peder Severin Krøyer Summer Evening on the Beach at Skagen 1884 pastel Nationalmuseum, Stockholm |
from Association Copy
Lynda Hull
Who can help the heart, which is grand and full
of gestures? I had been on my way out.
He was rearranging his bookshelves
when, in an approximation of tenderness,
he handed me, like the last of the sweet potatoes
at Thanksgiving, like a thing he wanted
but was willing to share, the rediscovered book –
he'd bought it years ago in a used bookstore
in Chicago. Levine's poems, with your signature inside.
That whole year I spent loving him, something splendid
as lemons, sour and bright and leading my tongue
toward new language, was on the shelf. These
weren't your own poems, autographed, a stranger's
souvenir – we'd spent vain months leafing through
New York stacks for your out-of-print collections – but you'd cared
about this book, or cared enough to claim it, your name
looped across the title page as if to say, Please.
This is mine, This book is mine. Though you sold it.
Or someone else did when you died.
– Camille Dungy (2011)