An Evening Poem

fire poem

By Amy Lowell

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper

Like draggled fly’s legs,

What can you tell of the flaring moon

Through the oak leaves?

Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them

Of blossoming hawthorns,

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of


Beneath my hand.


I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little ink drops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

of the great moon.

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