Louise Bogan

To me, one silly task is like another
I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride
This flesh will never give a child its mother,— Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side,
And madness chooses out my voice again,

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees, Facing a sheer sky
Everything moved, — a bell hung ready to strike, Sun and reflection wheeled by
When the bare eyes were before me And the hissing hair, Held up at a window, seen through a do...

Now that I
How passion warms
Of flesh in the mould,
And treasure is brittle,—I'll lie here and

When beauty breaks and falls asunderI feel no grief for it, but wonder
When love, like a frail shell, lies broken,
I keep no chip of it for token
I never had a man for

I do not know where either of us can turn Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other
I do not know how we can bear The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon,
Or many trees shaken together in the darkness
We shall wish...

She has no need to fear the fall Of harvest from the laddered reach Of orchards, nor the tide gone ebbing From the steep beach
Nor hold to pain's effrontery Her body's bulwark, stern and savage, Nor be a glass, where to forsee Another's ravag...

It is yourself you
In a long rage,
Scanning through light and
Mirrors, the page,