You are beautiful because you let yourself feel, and that is a brave thing indeed.
The night comes down, in ever-darkening shapes that seem—
To grope, with eerie fingers for the window—then—
To rest to sleep, enfolding me, as in a dream
Faith—might I awaken!
And drips the rain with seeming sad, insistent beat.
Shivering across the pane, drooping tear-wise,
And softly patters by, like little fearing feet.
The feathery ash is fluttered; there upon the pane,—
The dying fire casts a flickering ghostly beam,—
Then closes in the night and gently falling rain.
Aren’t there bigger things to talk about
Than a window in Greenwich Village
And hyacinths sprouting
Like little puce poems out of a sick soul?
Some cosmic hearsay—
As to whom—it can’t be Mars! put the moon—that way….
Or what winds do to canyons
Under the tall stars…
How that old roué, Neptune,
Cranes over his bald-head moons
At the twinkling heel of a sky-scraper.