Les plus lus ▸
White meat
the bridegroom and bride
both red in the morning
they give them a piece of chalk to lick
which makes them white in the flesh
with so much appearance
reality was left to sleep
Poèmes sur le thème : wedding
Poèmes sur le thème « wedding » sur Poets.by.
Backwoods wedding
day of new vows
all the rough hill sang
Little wedding song
on the hill where we wed
I expect we shall laugh
at us at this world
at what a peak we perceive
but that will do no hurt
to the quiet
Conceivable
I went to my father’s wedding
as a long white winter, a doubt,
a fruitless precaution.
Life did not stop.
Sacramental
practice wedding—
they all steal the minister’s
white wine
Flock
Drank my morning quiet and my noon-time stew:
a study for a ring for a wedding for old soldiers
in the dark in the park where a far flock played.
Cut Up
Where will I go
when we call one another mad,
pulling off bride’s and bridegroom’s ribbons,
fooling like mad five o’clock scissors
with my papers?
The Wedding
In this chapel, ten by eight
A wedding.
Guests- ghosts from the past
Crowded – stood mute.
Before the alter of life
I stood
Waiting.
Wedding March played
In silence –
For all gathered
Were deaf.
Do thee, Bala, take her
For your wife?
Will you, Bala, care for her
Feed her, clothe her, cherish her
Till death sets thee apart?
In Praise of Henna
A kokila called from a henna-spray:
LIRA! LIREE! LIRA! LIREE!
Hasten, maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.
Send your pitchers afloat on the tide,
Gather the leaves ere the dawn be old,
Grind them in mortars of amber and gold,
The fresh green leaves of the henna-tree.
A kokila called from a henna-spray:
LIRA! LIREE! LIRA! LIREE!
Hasten maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.
The tilka's red for the brow of a bride,
And betel-nut's red for lips that are sweet;
But, for lily-like fingers and feet,
The red, the red of the henna-tree.
Monograms
I am monogramming
Seven dozen napkins,
With tablecloths to match,
For a bride.
Ninety-one times my needle shall trace
The leaf-like scrolls that interlace
Each other; up the padded side
Of the monogram my eye shall guide
For ninety-one days where the stitches run ;
And every day one more is done.
She is tall and fair,
She will be married
In June. ...
The linen is fine as satin is fine;
Its shining coolness flaunts design
Of death-white poppies, trailing ferns