A Winter Ride

- 1874-1925
          Who shall declare the joy of the running!
           Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
          Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
           Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
          Everything mortal has moments immortal,
           Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.

          So with the stretch of the white road before me,
           Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
          Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
           Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
          Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
           Joy!  With the vigorous earth I am one.

Opal

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

The Taxi

When I go away from you
The world beats dead 
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

The Letter

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and the bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.