It is I control the air With my graceful flourish; Sometimes play it swiftly where Your clear glance I nourish— Sometimes catch it on the wing And hold it prisoner, Gently its caress to bring With soft, cool, plaintive stir. It is I who, under your quivering hair, Bring to your ear's discretion The sigh that sets the crimson there, The sigh of a rapt confession. It is I who snare it in for you, And help you to dissemble Your laughter that it will renew Or your tears that tremble. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LETTER TO JOSEPH WARREN by ROBERT FROST THE WIZARD IN WORDS by MARIANNE MOORE SONG FOR THE FIRST OF THE MONTH by DOROTHY PARKER CONRAD AT TWILIGHT by JOHN CROWE RANSOM BEFORE THE FLOWERS OF FRIENDSHIP FADED FADED: 21 by GERTRUDE STEIN AN AMERICAN IN BANGKOK by KAREN SWENSON |