Lines On Reading Too Many Poets
Roses, rooted warm in earth, Bud in rhyme, another age; Lilies know a ghostly birth Strewn along a patterned page; Golden lad and chimbley sweep Die; and so their song shall keep. Wind that
Healed
Oh, when I flung my heart away, The year was at its fall. I saw my dear, the other day, Beside a flowering wall; And this was all I had to say: “I thought
Daylight Saving
My answers are inadequate To those demanding day and date And ever set a tiny shock Through strangers asking what’s o’clock; Whose days are spent in whittling rhyme- What’s time to her, or she
Garden-Spot
God’s acre was her garden-spot, she said; She sat there often, of the Summer days, Little and slim and sweet, among the dead, Her hair a fable in the leveled rays. She turned the
A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature
The Lives and Times of John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron Byron and Shelley and Keats Were a trio of Lyrical treats. The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with
The Maid-Servant At The Inn
“It’s queer,” she said; “I see the light As plain as I beheld it then, All silver-like and calm and bright- We’ve not had stars like that again! “And she was such a gentle
My Own
Then let them point my every tear, And let them mock and moan; Another week, another year, And I’ll be with my own Who slumber now by night and day In fields of level
Ballade at Thirty-five
This, no song of an ingénue, This, no ballad of innocence; This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever her natural bents. This, a solo of sapience, This, a chantey of sophistry, This,
Coda
There’s little in taking or giving, There’s little in water or wine; This living, this living, this living Was never a project of mine. Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is The gain
Love Song
My own dear love, he is strong and bold And he cares not what comes after. His words ring sweet as a chime of gold, And his eyes are lit with laughter. He is
Now At Liberty
Little white love, your way you’ve taken; Now I am left alone, alone. Little white love, my heart’s forsaken. (Whom shall I get by telephone?) Well do I know there’s no returning; Once you
Purposely Ungrammatical Love Song
There’s many and many, and not so far, Is willing to dry my tears away; There’s many to tell me what you are, And never a lie to all they say. It’s little the
The Trusting Heart
Oh, I’d been better dying, Oh, I was slow and sad; A fool I was, a-crying About a cruel lad! But there was one that found me, That wept to see me weep, And
A Well-Worn Story
In April, in April, My one love came along, And I ran the slope of my high hill To follow a thread of song. His eyes were hard as porphyry With looking on cruel
Second Love
“So surely is she mine,” you say, and turn Your quick and steady mind to harder things- To bills and bonds and talk of what men earn- And whistle up the stair, of evenings.