WHEN I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head: I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead. But when love asks for nothing, And lies on his bed of snow, The face slips under my eyelids, All in its living glow. Like a dark cathedral city, Whose spires, and domes, and towers Quiver in violet lightnings, My soul basks on for hours. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPAIN IN AMERICA by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE FAERY FOREST by SARA TEASDALE A PHONECALL FROM FRANK O'HARA by ANNE WALDMAN TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT ODE ON MELANCHOLY by JOHN KEATS THE BELLS OF LYNN; HEARD AT NAHANT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |