Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
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The lamp-lit page is turned, the dream forgotten;
Deep worlds you lived before, deep worlds hereafterOf leaf on falling leaf, music on music,Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter.Helen was late, and Miriam came too soon;Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving;Elaine was married and soon to have a child.You dreamed last night of fiddler crabs with fiddles.They played a…
It is now two hours since I left you,
And though since thenI have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets,And heard the dead leaves blowing over the groundUnder the trees,I still remember the sound of your laughter.How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember youEven as long as this?Will the dust braid your hair?
When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles
I was dissappointed to findThat I could not play music upon them:I ran my hand lightly across themAnd they fell, tinkling.I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of lifeWill not be too great.
She rose in moonlight, and stood, confronting sea,
And lifted her voice in the silence foolishly:And her face was small, and her voice was small.‘O moon!’ she cried, ‘I think how you must tireForever circling earth, so silently;Earth, who is dark and makes you no reply.’She only heard the little waves rush and fall;And saw the moon go quietly down the sky.Like a…
I shall grow calm in a little while,
Cruel as cinematographI show life up to you … and smile.I shall be calm in a little space,-The blood grows quieter with the years;I shall be tenderer, then, to tears,And look more kindly on life’s face.Our hearts grow mellow nearing death-Like apples touched with autumn breath- ;When the dusk falls and day is doneWe look…
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.The purple lights leap…