Find and share the perfect poems.
Since my Beloved chambered me To beat within her breast, And took my soul to light a shrine Her soul had decked and dressed, And caught my songs about her throat,— Dissected, known, confessed, I dwell within her charity A half-unwelcome guest.
From Tower of Ivory (Yale University Press, 1917)
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
I built an unnamed altar in my heart,
And sculptured sacred garlands for a frieze
From delicately petalled memories,—
The fragrance of a word, the fragile art
Of ash-gold hair, dim visioned things that start
With radiant wings from mist of reveries,
And vanish at the telling as a breeze
The tremulously mirrored clouds lie deep,
Enchanted towers bosomed in the stream,
And blossomed coronals of white-thorn gleam
Within the water where the willows sleep—
Still-imaged willow-leaves whose shadows steep
The far-reflected sky in dark of dream;
And glimpsed therein the sun-winged swallows seem
As fleeting memories to those who weep.