Muted I sit here and expressionless
I want so much to tell this world the inner workings of my heart
But no such language exists.
I want so much to tell this world the inner workings of my heart
But no such language exists.
posted by dyingember at 1:00 AM
1 Comments:
Gray Room
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
And pick
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Or, with one finger,
Move the leaf in the bowl-
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
Beside you . . .
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.
Wallace Stevens
Post a Comment
<< Home