EVEN the lovers grow a little tired. . . Marsh silver stirs the dark. . . Still don't you see?. . . Marsh wind is rainy cool. I can be fired To eagerness by rustling in a tree. I want to walk -- to hear a slim fish splash Or to be startled suddenly by wings. A crippled thrush, lost in the black, might crash Through underbrush. I shall hear lowly things. A turtle scraping thrills me to the spine, And crickets nibbling noisy edges make Me comfortable. Entangled in a vine, I shall be seated drowsily awake. What if a grosbeak flying might. . . might brush My arm! Azaleas have a lovely way In moonlight. O if I could hear the rush Of rain and touch, barefooted, softened clay! I shall return. . . . Marsh fingers -- let them press My forehead to a rain cool retinue. I have grown eager for my loneliness. . . Still don't you see: My circle ends with you? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEVEN ARTS by ROBERT FROST THE WHITE RABBIT by KAREN SWENSON THE END OF THE WORLD by GORDON BOTTOMLEY A SWEET LULLABY by NICHOLAS BRETON A WINTER PIECE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT INGRATEFUL [OR UNGRATEFUL] BEAUTY THREATENED by THOMAS CAREW |