Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that . . .
Spring Dress
I love the unknown in you, the unfair, the shy backs of your knees, the colony of dimples that sleep in moon-shaped huts leaning toward your mouth. —Dave Malone From O: Love Poems from the Ozarks . . .
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing . . .
Ontology
She can be a nest. She's got the necessary equipment. Two breasts you could rest your head between. She can be a string of pearls, rounded between your fingers, as you count the time between ivory knots. She is, yes, the artichoke with the impossible heart a man might seek for . . .
Love and Sleep
Lying asleep between the strokes of night I saw my love lean over my sad bed, Pale as the duskiest lily’s leaf or head, Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, But perfect-coloured without white or red. And her lips opened . . .