My words are dust. I who would build a star, I who would touch the heel of the white sun; Staggering up the inaccessible sky, I look upon the dust. The stainless clouds go mounting In shining spires; And a little heap of dust Are my desires. Yet, dwelling long upon these peaks Unchained upon the flickering
sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox
The gray path glided before me
Through cool, green shadows;
Little leaves hung in the soft air
Like drowsy moths;
A group of dark trees, gravely conferring,
Made me conscious of the gaucherie of sound;
Farther on, a slim lilac
Drew me down to her on the warm grass.
“How sweet is peace!”
My serene heart said.
Then, suddenly, in a curve of the road,
A bright battalion, swaying,
They marched with fluttering flags,
And gay fifes playing!
A swift flame leapt in my heart;
I burned with passion;
I was tainted with cruelty;
I wanted to march in the wind,
To tear the silence with gay music,
And to slash the sober green
Until it sobbed and bled.
The tulips have found me out.