Wild Nights, Wild Nights! (269)

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile – the winds –
To a heart in port –
Done with the compass –
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor – Tonight –
In thee!

—Emily Dickinson

For more love poems, see The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.

Related Article at Tweetspeak Poetry:

“Who wouldn’t love a poet that loved to stay home, hated laundry, gave away baked goods, knew her way around a piece of sarcasm, and used chocolate wrappers for her Moleskine?” continue reading A Pencil for Emily Dickinson

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Wild nights Emily Dickinson photo by LL Barkat

photo by L.L. Barkat

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A Line-Storm Song

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

—Robert Frost, 1915

For more Robert Frost poems, see Robert Frost: Collected Poems, Prose, and Plays

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Be My Love in the Rain Robert Frost photo by Kelly Sauer

photo by Kelly Sauer

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Tea, No Sympathy

Bigelow brews up basic black;
Lipton warms with its touch

of tart Tuscan lemon. But I see
these aren’t your cups of tea.

With them, you get no yin, no
yang, no sweet and bitter blend

of Golden Flower, no accents
of lanky Jasmine Fairy Maidens

quick to unfold their charms
in the tallest sipping glasses. You

tend to trend to gourmet tastes,
need all the tea in China to brew

old Harney’s Golden Monkey,
uncovering leaves’ clearest notes

of honey to sweeten and loosen
your Rumi’s tongue. “Take tea

with me” comes in a silken sachet
I need not strain to decipher. Oh,

to get tippy in Assam’s best garden,
to unwrap your golden Dikom buds

as I unwind my pearls and purple sari.

—Maureen Doallas, author of Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems

This poem is a reprint from Every Day Poems and was a response to a tea poetry prompt at Tweetspeak Poetry: Tea for Two, Autumn.

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art by Gail Nadeau

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