How drowned in love and weedily washed ashore,
There to be fretted by the drag and shove
At the tide’s edge, I lie—these things and more:
Whose arm alone between me and the sand,
Whose voice alone, whose pitiful breath brought near,
Could thaw these nostrils and unlock this hand,
She could advise you, should you care to hear.
Small chance, however, in a storm so black,
A man will leave his friendly fire and snug
For a drowned woman’s sake, and bring her back
To drip and scatter shells upon the rug.
No one but Night, with tears on her dark face,
Watches beside me in this windy place.” —Night is my Sister, and How Deep in Love, Edna St. Vincent Millay
But she kissed Maye upon the brow,
As though to steal her soul away;
She kissed here on her Irish eyes,
Her faery eyes, now green, now grey.
And now she walks alone our girl,
Aloof from all life’s joys and pains;
The witch’s kiss is on her brow,
The dancing water in her veins.
Ah! For the hearts that cherish her,
That sigh and pine with secret pain
For her cool lips and smiling eyes;
For Maye will never love again—
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.” —Variations on the Word Sleep, Margaret Atwood
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as beathing in” —Variations on the Word Sleep, Margaret Atwood
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.” —Variations on the Word Sleep, Margaret Atwood
How shall I ease me of its ache,
For beauty more than bitterness
Makes the heart break.” —Song at Capri, Sara Teasdale
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.” —Endymion, John Keats
Dreams in the dusk,
Only dreams closing the day
And with the day’s close going back
To the gray things, the dark things,
The far, deep things of dreamland.
Dreams, only dreams in the dusk,
Only the old remembered pictures
Of lost days when the day’s loss
Wrote in tears the heart’s loss.
Tears and loss and broken dreams
May find your heart at dusk.
But then to wake and find it flown,
The dream of happiness destroyed,
To find myself unloved, alone,
What tongue can speak the dreary void?
A heart whence warm affections flow,
Creator, thou hast given to me,
And am I only thus to know
How sweet the joys of love would be?
And glances then may meet my eyes
That daylight never showed to me;
What raptures in my bosom rise,
Those earnest looks of love to see,
To feel my hand so kindly prest,
To know myself beloved at last,
To think my heart has found a rest,
My life of solitude is past!
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye
With scenes and pleasures of its own.” —Dreams, Anne Bronte
White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;—a fairy tale
Of some enchanted land we know not where,
But lovely as a landscape in a dream.” —Holidays, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,” —Holidays, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow