The cubbyhole I lie in is a box Of candied orange-peel. Soiled by hotel rooms till I reach the morgue That's not for me, I feel. Out of pure superstition I have come And settled here once more. The wallpaper is brown as any oak, And there's a singing door. I kept one hand upon the latch, you tried To fight free of the nets, And forelock touched enchanted forelock, and Then lips touched violets. O softy, in the name of times long gone, You play the old encore: Your costume like a primrose chirps "hello" To April as before. It's wrong to think-you are no Vestal: you Brought in a chair one day, Stood on it, took my life down from the shelf And blew the dust away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMING DOWN TO THE DESERT AT LORDBURG, N.M. by HAYDEN CARRUTH TO KNOW IN REVERIE THE ONLY PHENOMENOLOGY OF THE ABSOLUTE by HAYDEN CARRUTH TO SAMUEL COLERIDGE UPON HEARING HIS 'SOME I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS..' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FOR THE NEW YEAR by EDWIN MARKHAM GOD AND MY COUNTRY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE DARK HOUSE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON FROM FRANCE by ISAAC ROSENBERG |