The path grown over through the years

[glass-doll.livejournal.com]

The Letter

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 quickrs and twists have nothing in them
Or blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crips, smooth, virgin of
loveliness
Beneath my hand.

I am tired. Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you,
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.