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 . . .
The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; . . .
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a . . .
Epithalamium
I tell you, I felt like an elephant that night, the night of the harvest. Each furrow put on airs in the moonlight, and the stars were so much confetti that took more than one lifetime to fall … I blundered about, wondered where to sit; I asked after you. My trunk was so heavy— and can you . . .
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 . . .
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