Les plus lus ▸
Elizabeth Madox Roberts
When Mother or Father turns down the light,
I like to look into my pillow at night.
Some people call them dreams, but for me
They are things I look down in my pillow and see.
I saw some birds, as many as four,
That were all blue wings and nothing else more.
Without any head and without any feet,
Just blue wings flying over a street.
And almost every night I see
A little brown bowl that can talk to me,
A nice little bowl that laughs and sings,
And ever so many other things.
Sometimes they are plainer than I can say,
And while I am waking they go away.
And when nobody is coming by,
I feel my pillow all over and try
I get spiritual about liver
that lone wing
like a dark home
settling accounts with someone below
now nothing
but the print of a wing
where prison wounded him
no opportunity yet
to flee in the night
the night that was the state
I know what I know
to be false
how things in the hand refuse us
gives me comfort
a thought should be worth
one wing
a wing coming from sea
at the death of a master
a great gust calling
our thoughts away
I leave my change with a blind man
testing the rain
everywhere a wing
and nobody minding it but me
weary and high
how sorry is the wolf
to eat a wing
a wolf hard as the mind
to do something with
I saw a book
in the water
a wing
the ground took to eat
what wing broke a pinion in the garden
I am hunting a word to help us
through the long waters
on each side the east
angry at being here
like a child of war
after my floor fell on me
after a quiet doubt will not do
my new-strung self
angry at this one good wing
wings over the water
where I am drowning
the sound of a dark city
like night breaking into rain
a most troublesome fellow my head
aching to have the world
and knot it up
seeing all the disorder of desire
as a wing for love