Pueblo
The pueblo rises under the sun-bronzed noon
As if hammered out of copper ;
The sky's metallic blue
Rings in the silence.
Nothing moves but the shapes
That strain without changing.
Poems on the topic: sky
Poems on the topic “sky” on Poets.by.
Three Men Entered the Desert Alone
Three men entered the desert alone.
But one of them slept like a sack of stone
As the wagon toiled and plodded along,
And one of them sang a drinking song
He had heard at the bar of The Little Cyclone.
Then he too fell asleep at last,
While the third one felt his soul grow vast
As the circle of sand and alkali.
His soul extended and touched the sky.
His old life dropped as a dream that is past,
As the sand slipped off from the wagon wheel —
The shining sand from the band of steel,
While the far horizon widened and grew
Into something he dimly felt he knew,
And had always known, that had just come true.
His vision rested on ridges of sand,
Cactus
The cactus scrawls crude hieroglyphs against the sky;
It reaches with twisted, inquisitive fingers
To clutch the throat of something and question
Why.
Parting
Now I go, do not weep, woman —
Woman, do not weep;
Though I go from you to die,
We shall both lie down
At the foot of the hill, and sleep.
Now I go, do not weep, woman —
Woman, do not weep;
Earth is our mother and our tent the sky.
Though I go from you to die.
We shall both lie down
At the foot of the hill, and sleep.
The Wind
The wind is carrying me round the sky;
The wind is carrying me round the sky.
My body is here in the valley —
The wind is carrying me round the sky.
Autumn
Fugitive, wistful,
Pausing at edge of her going,
Autumn the maiden turns,
Leans to the earth with ineffable
Gesture. Ah, more than
Spring's skies her skies shine
Tender, and frailer
Bloom than plum-bloom or almond
Lies on her hillsides, her fields
Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier
Is her refusal than
Yielding, who pauses with grave
Backward smiling, with light
Unforgettable touch of
Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo
Vanishes . . . fugitive, wistful. . . .
Pine-Trees and the Sky: Evening
I'd watched the sorrow of the evening sky,
And smelt the sea, and earth, and the warm clover,
And heard the waves, and the seagull's mocking cry.
And in them all was only the old cry,
That song they always sing -- "The best is over!
You may remember now, and think, and sigh,
O silly lover!"
And I was tired and sick that all was over,
And because I,
For all my thinking, never could recover
One moment of the good hours that were over.
And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die.
Then from the sad west turning wearily,
I saw the pines against the white north sky,
Very beautiful, and still, and bending over
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky.
Bed in Summer
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
Easter
The air is like a butterfly
With frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky
And sings.
To My Brother George
Many the wonders I this day have seen:
The sun, when first he kissed away the tears
That filled the eyes of Morn;—the laurelled peers
Who from the feathery gold of evening lean;—
The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears
Must think on what will be, and what has been.
E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping
So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
And she her half-discovered revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
Roses
You love the roses - so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
To see the Summer Sky
To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie --
True Poems flee --
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