There, an evening star, there again. Above The torn lovelace of snow, in the far sky That glows with an afterlight, fading, The evening star piercing a black tangle Of trees on the ridge. Shall it be our kiss? Can we call its sudden singleness, Its unannounced simplicity, its rage In the abhorrent distances, its small viridine, Ours, always ours? Or shall we say This wintry eloquence is mere affect Of tattered snow, of tangling black limbs? Everything reproaches me, everything, Because we do not stand by Leman's water, By the onyx columns, entablatures, all The entablatures, watching the cygnets fade With Sapphic pathos into a silver night. Listen, the oboe and the little drum Make Lulliana where the old whores walk . . . Do men and women meet and love forthwith? Or do they think about it? Or do they In a masque play fated figures en tragique? Perhaps they are those who only stand In tattered snow and dream of fated things. The limbs have snatched the star, have eaten it. Another night, we've lost another day. Nothing Spoke to us, certainly nothing spoke for us -- The slate is clean. Here therefore is my kiss. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SPIRITUAL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE END OF THE EPISODE by THOMAS HARDY NEARER by ROBERT MALISE BOWYER NICHOLS COMPENSATIONS by CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER PERMANENCY by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON EPIGRAM: 19. NICOTELES by CALLIMACHUS ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE by JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER SR. |