Poems
Amy Lowell
The wind has blown a corner of your shawlInto the fountain,Where it floats and driftsAmong the lily-padsLike a tissue of sapphires.But you do not heed it,Your fingers pick at the lichensOn the stone edge of the basin,And your eyes follow the tall cloudsAs they sail over the ilex trees.
The wind has blown a corner of your shawlInto the fountain,Where it floats and driftsAmong the lily-padsLike a tissue of sapphires.But you do not heed it,Your fingers pick at the lichensOn the stone edge of the basin,And your eyes follow the tall cloudsAs they sail over the ilex trees.
The wind has blown a corner of your shawlInto the fountain,Where it floats and driftsAmong the lily-padsLike a tissue of sapphires.But you do not heed it,Your fingers pick at the lichensOn the stone edge of the basin,And your eyes follow the tall cloudsAs they sail over the ilex trees.
The wind has blown a corner of your shawl
Into the fountain,
Where it floats and drifts
Among the lily-pads
Like a tissue of sapphires.
But you do not heed it,
Your fingers pick at the lichens
On the stone edge of the basin,
And your eyes follow the tall clouds
As they sail over the ilex trees.
Anaemic women, stupidly dressed and shodIn squeaky shoes, thump down the nave to laud an expurgated God.Bunches of lights reflect upon the pavement whereThe twenty benches stop, and through the close, smelled-over airGaunt arches push up their whited cones,And cover the sparse worshipers with dead men’s stones.Behind his shambling choristers, with flattened feetAnd red-flapped hood, the Bishop walks, completeIn old, frayed ceremonial. The organ wheezesA moldy psalm-tune, and a verger sneezes.But the great Cathedral spears into the skyShouting for joy.What is the red-flapped Bishop praying for, by the bye?
Anaemic women, stupidly dressed and shodIn squeaky shoes, thump down the nave to laud an expurgated God.Bunches of lights reflect upon the pavement whereThe twenty benches stop, and through the close, smelled-over airGaunt arches push up their whited cones,And cover the sparse worshipers with dead men’s stones.Behind his shambling choristers, with flattened feetAnd red-flapped hood, the Bishop walks, completeIn old, frayed ceremonial. The organ wheezesA moldy psalm-tune, and a verger sneezes.But the great Cathedral spears into the skyShouting for joy.What is the red-flapped Bishop praying for, by the bye?
Anaemic women, stupidly dressed and shodIn squeaky shoes, thump down the nave to laud an expurgated God.Bunches of lights reflect upon the pavement whereThe twenty benches stop, and through the close, smelled-over airGaunt arches push up their whited cones,And cover the sparse worshipers with dead men’s stones.Behind his shambling choristers, with flattened feetAnd red-flapped hood, the Bishop walks, completeIn old, frayed ceremonial. The organ wheezesA moldy psalm-tune, and a verger sneezes.
Anaemic women, stupidly dressed and shod
In squeaky shoes, thump down the nave to laud an expurgated God.
Bunches of lights reflect upon the pavement where
The twenty benches stop, and through the close, smelled-over air
Gaunt arches push up their whited cones,
And cover the sparse worshipers with dead men’s stones.
Behind his shambling choristers, with flattened feet
And red-flapped hood, the Bishop walks, complete
In old, frayed ceremonial. The organ wheezes
A moldy psalm-tune, and a verger sneezes.
But the great Cathedral spears into the skyShouting for joy.
But the great Cathedral spears into the sky
Shouting for joy.
What is the red-flapped Bishop praying for, by the bye?
What is the red-flapped Bishop praying for, by the bye?