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| Montage from wallpaperflare.com |
Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
Wild Nights
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 but moor - tonight -
In thee!
1861
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2 comments:
I have dabbled in poetry from time to time in my life, producing mostly existential verbiage, but when it comes to other's poetry, for some reason, I just yawn.
Well, to each his own. Scott Fitzgerald wrote to his daughter, a budding writer, in the 1930s:
"Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you - like music to the musician or Marxism to the communist - or else it is nothing, an empty, formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations."
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