Les plus lus ▸
Marjorie Pickthall
Endlessly fell her chestnut flowers,
Faint snow throughout the honeyed dark ;
The myrtle spread his boughs to drink
Deep draughts of salt from the sea's brink,
And like a moon-dial swung her tower's
Straight shadow o'er her warded park.
From her calm coasts the galleons fled,
The fisher steered him further west,
No port was hailed, no keel came home
Across that pale, enchanted foam,
But by her roof the thrushes fed
And wandering swallows found their rest.
The shadows touched her tenderly,
The red beam lingered on her dress;
The white gull and the osprey knew
Her tower across the leagues of blue.
swan lodging in my clock
elder brother to the air
the night being hot beyond bearing
deliver us some treacle of sleep
in dry weather
I go for wine
the secret owl of my heart
is married to a swan
who was not for the war
and the business of war
and whatever he pretends
means no hurt in it
a failed swan
coming home to a field
at the office I bound myself
to strict rules
my hands think without me
a tick will not talk
to his old red comrade
above the world a swan
is as much of the dead
as we know
joy is a swan in the mind
a door open to anything
a psalm against money
the night fox
soldiers
make way for a swan
that high rattle
Being very cold, I went
all alone to the sun,
which was at sea, like
a dinner coming on table
that I could not interpret,
or the first walk on water
by a dark swan.
All morning thinking.
On the water, the corpse of a swan.
I eat 200 walnuts.
My body gives me joy,
as if I were a swan or a fish.
A song or two
in my chamber in the dark,
now that the bed is out,
sound very well.
the night is our supper
my dream swan
my old acquaintance meth
For the old swan,
staying in bed is
the custom; best
to rest where the sun
crossed the water.
To the old swan,
we tower and boat
like blind
stairs of lead.