all day long
we hear your scraping
summer song
like
rusty
fiddles
in
the
grass
as through
the meadow
path
we pass
such funny legs
such funny feet
and how we wonder
what you eat
maybe a single blink of dew
sipped from a clover leaf would do
then high in air
once more you spring
to fall in grass again
and sing.
Similar Posts
Of what she said to me that night—no matter.
My brain was full of music—something she played me—;I couldn’t remember it all, but phrases of itWreathed and wreathed among faint memories,Seeking for something, trying to tell me something,Urging to restlessness: verging on grief.I tried to play the tune, from memory,—But memory failed: the chords and discords climbedAnd found no resolution—only hung there,And left me…
He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter.She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night.His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.The clock upon her mantelpiece strikes nine.The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.The…
He thinks her little feet should pass
Her hands should lift in sunlit airSea-wind should tangle up her hair.Green leaves, he says, have never heardA sweeter ragtime mockingbird,Nor has the moon-man ever seen,Or man in the spotlight, leering green,Such a beguiling, smiling queen.Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;And when she dances his young heart…
The first soft snowflakes hovering down the night,
Whispering over the black unfrozen pool,Silently falling on withered leaves,Eddying slowly among bare boughs of trees,-The music you are to me is as ghostly as these,Softly falling, softly passing,Wandering slowly on dreamless air …The first soft snowflakes slanting down this nightMelt on the lifted palms of your hands,Or in the fragrant darkness of your hair…
She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more.
To shut out, if she could, this dingy room,The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,—Yellows and greens in the dark,—she walked againThose nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . .Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp,Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and lookedIn through the brilliant windows of a…
Music I heard with you was more than music,
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;All that was once so beautiful is dead.Your hands once touched this table and this silver,And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.These things do not remember you, belovèd,And yet your touch upon them will not pass.For it was in my heart you moved among them,And…