1 min read
Слушать(AI)The Poet
What instinct forces man to journey on, Urged by a longing blind but dominant! Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing daunt His never failing eagerness.
The sun Setting in splendour every night has won His vassalage; those towers flamboyant Of airy cloudland palaces now haunt His daylight wanderings.
Forever done With simple joys and quiet happiness He guards the vision of the sunset sky;
Though faint with weariness he must possess Some fragment of the sunset's majesty;
He spurns life's human friendships to profess Life's loneliness of dreaming ecstasy.
Amy Lowell
Amy Lawrence Lowell (February 9, 1874 – May 12, 1925) was an American poet of the imagist school, which was promoting a return to classical valu
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Decade
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness Now you are like morning bread, Smooth and pleasant
Astigmatism
To Ezra Pound With much friendship and admiration and some differences of The Poet took his Of fine and polished ebony Set in the close-grained
Prayer For Lightning
My corn is green with red tassels, I am praying to the lightning to ripen my corn, I am praying to the thunder which carries the lightning Corn is sweet where lightning has fallen
IThe Trumpet-Vine Arbour
The Trumpet-Vine The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight They bray and blare at the burning sky