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About this Poem 

This poem originally appeared in Nets to Catch the Wind (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1921).

Sunset on the Spire

All that I dream
    By day or night
Lives in that stream
    Of lovely light.
Here is the earth,
    And there is the spire;
This is my hearth,
    And that is my fire.
From the sun's dome
    I am shouted proof
That this is my home,
    And that is my roof.
Here is my food,
    And here is my drink,
And I am wooed
    From the moon's brink.
And the days go over,
    And the nights end;
Here is my lover,
    Here is my friend.
All that I
    Could ever ask
Wears that sky
    Like a thin gold mask.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on June 23, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on June 23, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

Elinor Wylie

Elinor Wylie

Elinor Wylie was born in Somerville, New Jersey, on September 7, 1885. 

by this poet

poem

Say not of Beauty she is good,
Or aught but beautiful,
Or sleek to doves’ wings of the wood
Her wild wings of a gull.

Call her not wicked; that word’s touch
Consumes her like a curse;
But love her not too much, too much,
For that is even worse.

O, she is neither good nor

poem
When foxes eat the last gold grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I'll build.

But first I'll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands,
Making blind moons of all your eyes,
And muddy roads of all your hands.

And you may grope for me in
poem
For this you’ve striven
    Daring, to fail:
Your sky is riven
    Like a tearing veil.

For this, you’ve wasted
    Wings of your youth;
Divined, and tasted
    Bitter springs of truth.

From sand unslakèd
    Twisted strong cords,
And wandered naked
    Among trysted swords.

There’s a word unspoken,
    A knot