Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind; I’m bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn’s recurrent light; I
Frustration
If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun Speeding bullets through the brains Of the folk who give me pains; Or had I some poison gas, I could make
The Burned Child
Love has had his way with me. This my heart is torn and maimed Since he took his play with me. Cruel well the bow-boy aimed, Shot, and saw the feathered shaft Dripping bright
Iseult Of Brittany
So delicate my hands, and long, They might have been my pride. And there were those to make them song Who for their touch had died. Too frail to cup a heart within, Too
A Fairly Sad Tale
I think that I shall never know Why I am thus, and I am so. Around me, other girls inspire In men the rush and roar of fire, The sweet transparency of glass, The
Rainy Night
Ghosts of all my lovely sins, Who attend too well my pillow, Gay the wanton rain begins; Hide the limp and tearful willow. Turn aside your eyes and ears, Trail away your robes of
They Part
And if, my friend, you’d have it end, There’s naught to hear or tell. But need you try to black my eye In wishing me farewell. Though I admit an edged wit In woe
Liebestod
When I was bold, when I was bold- And that’s a hundred years!- Oh, never I thought my breast could hold The terrible weight of tears. I said: “Now some be dolorous; I hear
After Spanish Proverb
Oh, mercifullest one of all, Oh, generous as dear, None lived so lowly, none so small, Thou couldst withhold thy tear: How swift, in pure compassion, How meek in charity, To offer friendship to
Bohemia
Authors and actors and artists and such Never know nothing, and never know much. Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney. Playwrights and poets and such
Tombstones in the Starlight
I. The Minor Poet His little trills and chirpings were his best. No music like the nightingale’s was born Within his throat; but he, too, laid his breast Upon a thorn. II. The Pretty
Little Words
When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf, Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds; And I can only stare, and shape my grief In little words. I cannot conjure loveliness,
The Searched Soul
When I consider, pro and con, What things my love is built upon A curly mouth; a sinewed wrist; A questioning brow; a pretty twist Of words as old and tried as sin; A
Lullaby
Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you; Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams. Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you; Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams. Chorus the nightingales,
Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom
Daily dawns another day; I must up, to make my way. Though I dress and drink and eat, Move my fingers and my feet, Learn a little, here and there, Weep and laugh and