Beauty is the marking-time, the stationary vibration, the feigned ecstasy of an arrested impulse unable to reach its natural end. Mana Aboda, whose bent form The sky in arched circle is, Seems ever for an unknown grief to mourn. Yet on a day I heard her cry: "I weary of the roses and the singing poets -- Josephs all, not tall enough to try." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FISHERMAN IN SONGKHLA by KAREN SWENSON A DAY DREAM by EMILY JANE BRONTE BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE [DECEMBER 2O, 1860] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE V-A-S-E by JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE |