Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns, And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand. I am tired, Beloved, of chafing against my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO HENRY LINCOLN JOHNSON - LAWYER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON HOLES BORED IN A WORKBAG BY THE SCISSORS by MARIANNE MOORE TRANSFORMATION by CARL SANDBURG NOEL: CHRISTMAS EVE, 1913 by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES PROMETHEUS by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL MAUBERLEY: 5. MEDALLION by EZRA POUND |