Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/14

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Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds
Heaven, you say, will be a field in April
In the long silence of the sea


Eight Sonnets193
When you, that at this moment are to me
What's this of death, from you who never will die
I know I am but summer to your heart
Here is a wound that never will heal, I know
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare
Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find