Elinor Wylie

The icicles wreathing On trees in festoon Swing, swayed to our breathing: They’re made of the moon. She’s a pale, waxen taper; And these seem to drip Transparent as paper From the flame of

I shall die hidden in a hut In the middle of an alder wood, With the back door blind and bolted shut, And the front door locked for good. I shall lie folded like

Why should my sleepy heart be taught To whistle mocking-bird replies? This is another bird you’ve caught, Soft-feathered, with a falcon’s eyes. The bird Imagination, That flies so far, that dies so soon; Her

Hate in the world’s hand Can carve and set its seal Like the strong blast of sand Which cuts into steel. I have seen how the finger of hate Can mar and mould Faces

Too high, too high to pluck My heart shall swing. A fruit no bee shall suck, No wasp shall sting. If on some night of cold It falls to ground In apple-leaves of gold

Ah, love, within the shadow of the wood The laurels are cut down; some other brows May bear the classic wreath which Fame allows And find the burden honorable and good. Have we not

Liza, go steep your long white hands In the cool waters of that spring Which bubbles up through shiny sands The colour of a wild-dove’s wing. Dabble your hands, and steep them well Until

First Traveller: What’s that lying in the dust? Second Traveller: A crooked stick. First Traveller: What’s it worth, if you can trust to arithmetic? Second Traveller: Isn’t this a riddle? First Traveller: No, a

Allegra, rising from her canopied dreams, Slides both white feet across the slanted beams Which lace the peacock jalousies: behold An idol of fine clay, with feet of gold

Within my house of patterned horn I sleep in such a bed As men may keep before they’re born And after when they’re dead. Sticks and stones may break their bones, And words may

Man, the egregious egoist (In mystery the twig is bent) Imagines, by some mental twist, That he alone is sentient Of the intolerable load That on all living creatures lies, Nor stoops to pity

Better to see your cheek grown hollow, Better to see your temple worn, Than to forget to follow, follow, After the sound of a silver horn. Better to bind your brow with willow And

This is the bricklayer; hear the thud Of his heavy load dumped down on stone. His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood, His smoking mortar whiter than bone. Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick Straight

Here’s a wonderful thing, A humming-bird’s wing In hammered gold, And store well chosen Of snowflakes frozen In crystal cold. Black onyx cherries And mistletoe berries Of chrysoprase, Jade buds, tight shut, All carven

I saw a Tiger’s golden flank, I saw what food he ate, By a desert spring he drank; The Tiger’s name was Hate. Then I saw a placid Lamb Lying fast asleep; Like a

Say not of beauty she is good, Or aught but beautiful, Or sleek to doves’ wings of the wood Her wild wings of a gull. Call her not wicked; that word’s touch Consumes her

A white well In a black cave; A bright shell In a dark wave. A white rose Black brambles hood; Smooth bright snows In a dark wood. A flung white glove In a dark

Lovers eminent in love Ever diversities combine; The vocal chords of the cushat-dove, The snake’s articulated spine. Such elective elements Educate the eye and lip With one’s refreshing innocence, The other’s claim to scholarship.

Let us quarrel for these reasons: You detest the salt which seasons My speech. . . and all my lights go out In the cold poison of your doubt. I love Shelley. . .

When against earth a wooden heel Clicks as loud as stone on steel, When stone turns flour instead of flakes, And frost bakes clay as fire bakes, When the hard-bitten fields at last Crack

I was always afraid of Somes’s Pond: Not the little pond, by which the willow stands, Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond. There, where

Sleep falls, with limpid drops of rain, Upon the steep cliffs of the town. Sleep falls; men are at peace again While the small drops fall softly down. The bright drops ring like bells

The Hielan’ lassies are a’ for spinnin’, The Lowlan’ lassies for prinkin’ and pinnin’; My daddie w’u’d chide me, an’ so w’u’d my minnie If I s’u’d bring hame sic a prinkin’ leddie. Now

It is not heaven: bitter seed Leavens its entrails with despair It is a star where dragons breed: Devils have a footing there. The sky has bent it out of shape; The sun has

When foxes eat the last gold grape, And the last white antelope is killed, I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I’ll build. But first I’ll shrink to fairy size, With

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words: I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish Which circle slowly with a silken swish, And tender ones, like downy-feathred birds: Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in