The food has a warm and tempting smell,-
But on the window licks the night.
Pile on the logs… Give me your hands,
Friends! No,- it is not fright…
But hold me… somewhere I heard demands…
And on the window licks the night.
Similar Posts
Where the cedar leaf divides the sky
In sapphire arenas of the hillsI was promised an improved infancy.Sulking, sanctioning the sun,My memory I left in a ravine,-Casual louse that tissues the buck-wheat,Aprons rocks, congregates pearsIn moonlit bushelsAnd wakens alleys with a hidden cough.Dangerously the summer burned(I had joined the entrainments of the wind).The shadows of boulders lengthened my back:In the bronze gongs…
–And yet this great wink of eternity,
Samite sheeted and processioned whereHer undinal vast belly moonward bends,Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;Take this Sea, whose diapason knellsOn scrolls of silver snowy sentences,The sceptred terror of whose sessions rendsAs her demeanors motion well or ill,All but the pieties of lovers’ hands.And onward, as bells off San SalvadorSalute the crocus lustres of the…
Moonmoth and grasshopper that flee our page
We pinion to your bodies to assuageOur envy of your freedom—we must maimBecause we are usurpers, and chagrined—And take the wing and scar it in the hand.Names we have, even, to clap on the wind;But we must die, as you, to understand.I dreamed that all men dropped their names, and sangAs only they can praise,…
The tarantula rattling at the lily’s foot
Near the coral beach—nor zigzag fiddle crabsSide-stilting from the path (that shift, subvertAnd anagrammatize your name)—No, nothing hereBelow the palsy that one eucalyptus liftsIn wrinkled shadows—mourns.And yet supposeI count these nacreous frames of tropic death,Brutal necklaces of shells around each graveSquared off so carefully. ThenTo the white sand I may speak a name, fertileAlbeit in…
As silent as a mirror is believed
I am not ready for repentance;Nor to match regrets. For the mothBends no more than the stillImploring flame. And tremorousIn the white falling flakesKisses are,–The only worth all granting.It is to be learned–This cleaving and this burning,But only by the one whoSpends out himself again.Twice and twice(Again the smoking souvenir,Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.Until the…
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
Shedding white rings of tumult, building highOver the chained bay waters Liberty–Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyesAs apparitional as sails that crossSome page of figures to be filed away;–Till elevators drop us from our day . . .I think of cinemas, panoramic sleightsWith multitudes bent toward some flashing sceneNever disclosed, but hastened to again,Foretold…