Nets to Catch the Wind
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ISBN 13: 9781495224829
Manage series By LibriVox. Discovered by Player FM and our community — copyright is owned by the publisher, not Player FM, and audio streamed directly from their servers. This is the first volume of Poems by American poet and novelist Elinor Wylie, published in Play Later. Welcome to Player FM What if radio played only the shows you care about, when you want? Take it with you. Guides you to smart, interesting podcasts based on category, channel, or even specific topics.
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Player FM might just be it. Brilliantly useful, fantastically intuitive, beautiful UI. Second Traveller: But it's all grown over with moss! Atavism I WAS always afraid of Somes's Pond: Not the little pond, by which the willow stands, Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond. There, where the frost makes all the birches burn Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines, Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn.
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You'll say I dreamed it, being the true daughter Of those who in old times endured this dread. Where the lily-stems are showing red A silent paddle moves below the water, A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath; Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death. Wild Peaches 1 W HEN the world turns completely upside down You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.
The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.
Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter's over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.
I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There's something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death. His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood, His smoking mortar whiter than bone.
Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick Straight by the plumb-line's shivering length; Make my marvelous wall so thick Dead nor living may shake its strength. Full as a crystal cup with drink Is my cell with dreams, and quiet, and cool. Stop, old man! You must leave a chink; How can I breathe? You can't, you fool! I saw a lion tawny-red, Terrible and brave; The Tiger's leap overhead Broke like a wave.
In sand below or sun above He faded like a flame. The Lamb said, "I am Love; Lion, tell your name. By this spring, Brother, let us rest. I heard a dog begin to bark And a bold crowing cock; The bell, between the cold and dark, Tolled. It was five o'clock.
Nets to catch the wind
The church-bell tolled, and the bird sang, A clear true voice he had; The cock crew, and the church-bell rang, I knew it had gone mad. A hand reached down from the dark skies, It took the bell-rope thong, The bell cried "Look!
Lift up your eyes! The iron clapper laughed aloud, Like clashing wind and wave; The bell cried out "Be strong and proud! Slow and slow the great bell swung, It hung in the steeple mute; And people tore its living tongue Out by the very root. Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff, Snatch and catch and grope; That face is yellow-pale, as if The fellow swung from rope.
Dull like pebbles, sharp like knives, Glances strike and glare, Fingers tangle, Bluebeard's wives Dangle by the hair. Orchard of the strangest fruits Hanging from the skies; Brothers, yet insensate brutes Who fear each other's eyes. One man stands as free men stand, As if his soul might be Brave, unbroken; see his hand Nailed to an oaken tree.
Sleep falls; men are at peace again While the small drops fall softly down. The bright drops ring like bells of glass Thinned by the wind, and lightly blown; Sleep cannot fall on peaceful grass So softly as it falls on stone. Peace falls unheeded on the dead Asleep; they have had deep peace to drink; Upon a live man's bloody head It falls most tenderly, I think. Winter Sleep W HEN against earth a wooden heel Clicks as loud as stone on steel, When stone turns flour instead of flakes, And frost bakes clay as fire bakes, When the hard-bitten fields at last Crack like iron flawed in the cast, When the world is wicked and cross and old, I long to be quit of the cruel cold.
Little birds like bubbles of glass Fly to other Americas, Birds as bright as sparkles of wine Fly in the nite to the Argentine, Birds of azure and flame-birds go To the tropical Gulf of Mexico: They chase the sun, they follow the heat, It is sweet in their bones, O sweet, sweet, sweet!
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It's not with them that I'd love to be, But under the roots of the balsam tree. Just as the spiniest chestnut-burr Is lined within with the finest fur, So the stoney-walled, snow-roofed house Of every squirrel and mole and mouse Is lined with thistledown, sea-gull's feather, Velvet mullein-leaf, heaped together With balsam and juniper, dry and curled, Sweeter than anything else in the world.
O what a warm and darksome nest Where the wildest things are hidden to rest! It's there that I'd love to lie and sleep, Soft, soft, soft, and deep, deep, deep! Village Mystery T HE woman in the pointed hood And cloak blue-gray like a pigeon's wing, Whose orchard climbs to the balsam-wood, Has done a cruel thing. To her back door-step came a ghost, A girl who had been ten years dead, She stood by the granite hitching-post And begged for a piece of bread.
Now why should I, who walk alone, Who am ironical and proud, Turn, when a woman casts a stone At a beggar in a shroud?
Nets to Catch the Wind by Elinor Wylie - Free at Loyal Books
I saw the dead girl cringe and whine, And cower in the weeping air-- But, oh, she was no kin of mine, And so I did not care! But first I'll shrink to fairy size, With a whisper no one understands, Making blind moons of all your eyes, And muddy roads of all your hands. And you may grope for me in vain In hollows under the mangrove root, Or where, in apple-scented rain, The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.
Black onyx cherries And mistletoe berries Of chrysoprase, Jade buds, tight shut, All carven and cut In intricate ways. Here, if you please Are little gilt bees In amber drops Which look like honey, Translucent and sunny, From clover-tops. Here's an elfin girl Of mother-of-pearl And moonshine made, With tortise-shell hair Both dusky and fair In its light and shade. Here's lacquer laid thin, Like a scarlet skin On an ivory fruit; And a filigree frost Of frail notes lost From a fairy lute. Here's a turquoise chain Of sun-shower rain To wear if you wish; And glittering green With aquamarine, A silvery fish.
Here are pearls all strung On a thread among Pretty pink shells; And bubbles blown From the opal stone Which ring like bells. Touch them and take them, But do not break them! Beneath your hand They will wither like foam If you carry them home Out of fairy-lannd. O, they never can last Though you hide them fast From moth and from rust; In your monstrous day They will crumble away Into quicksilver dust.
For this, you've wasted Wings of your youth; Divined, and tasted Bitter springs of truth. There's a word unspoken, A knot untied. Whatever is broken The earth may hide. The road was jagged Over sharp stones: Your body's too ragged To cover your bones.
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The wind scatters Tears upon dust; Your soul's in tatters Where the spears thrust. Blood Feud O NCE, when my husband was a child, there came To his father's table, one who called him kin, In sunbleached corduroys paler than his skin. His look was grave and kind; he bore the name Of the dead singer of Senlac, and his smile. Shyly and courteously he smiled and spoke; "I've been in the laurel since the winter broke; Four months, I reckon; yes, sir, quite a while.