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 . . .
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 . . .