Poetry Archives

I never may turn the loop of a road
  Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load—
  My heart, that a second before was flying.

I never behold the quivering rain—
  And sweeter the rain than a lover to me—
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
  My heart, that was tapping contentedly.

There’s never a rose spreads new at my door
  Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
  And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.

The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
  Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day—
  What is it, what is it, I almost remember?