THE POEM
I.
I lift my gaze from one poet's book,
Archaic, pallid, underwise,
Then stop my strained and fretful look—
Why, here's a poem before my eyes!
I lift my gaze from one poet's book,
Archaic, pallid, underwise,
Then stop my strained and fretful look—
Why, here's a poem before my eyes!
Not in the books, whose marshaled rows
Wait for my seeking, to disclose
Their thin and varied thus-and-soes;
Wait for my seeking, to disclose
Their thin and varied thus-and-soes;
Not in the iris flower of June,
That proudly spills its purple boon,
A wordless, soundless, fragrant tune;
That proudly spills its purple boon,
A wordless, soundless, fragrant tune;
Not in the waiting ivory keys,
Nor the room's pleasant harmonies,
Sweet with disheveled memories,—
Nor the room's pleasant harmonies,
Sweet with disheveled memories,—
My restless eyes achieve their rest,
Break to a smile, and ponder, where,
With face at peace, and moveless breast,
My tired young wife lies sleeping there.
Break to a smile, and ponder, where,
With face at peace, and moveless breast,
My tired young wife lies sleeping there.
II.
Peace on her face, peace in this room—
Oh, it is far to the flaring gloom
Peace on her face, peace in this room—
Oh, it is far to the flaring gloom
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