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* * *
man, was it you
who lurked by the barn
as I whiffed
the early morning
spring tulips
& saw the
black gander
fall through
air
& dive
down
into the water
& clutch
the weeds
at the bottom
& stay there
Poems on the topic: tulip
Poems on the topic “tulip” on Poets.by.
In Love
No firefly more forlorn, more gravely strays
Among the glories of the morning tree
Than I, who glide almost invisibly
Where apple boughs are white as brides' bouquets.
Beneath the arches of the orchard ways,
Only one tulip, that I start to see,
As though my own heart had dropped out of me,
Seems to have guessed that I, too, am ablaze.
My blood is full of gleamings like seafoam,
My body brims with something of the moon
And shakes, as if with wings that would unfold.
So, after dark, I bar the doors of home,
Lest those, who think that I am grey at noon,
Should stare at night to see that I am gold.
The Fog
The great ghosts of the town
Up and down,
Each a gray, filmy thing,
Go by.
Sudden a brief, wet sky! —
A file of poplars vague with spring.
Drips the old garden there;
See, its torn edge about,
Scarlet, remote,
Tulips flare,
The length of one thin note! —
And are put out.
After Embroidering
I can take mercerized cotton
And make a never-flower beautiful
By thinking of tulips growing in windowboxes;
I can work into cloth
A certain hushed softness
From an imagined scrutiny
Of a lily's skin,
And embroider conventional designs the better
For thinking of brick garden paths.
But if I go farther,
If I follow the path.
Fling out the gate,
Plunge one breathless thought over an horizon . . .
My hands lose their cunning.
A Tulip Garden
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace,
Marshalled like soldiers in gay company,
The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry
Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace
Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace!
Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry,
With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye
Of purple batteries, every gun in place.
Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread,
With torches burning, stepping out in time
To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead,
We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime
Parades that army. With our utmost powers
We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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