The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and
my book;
And the South Wind, washing through the room,
Makes the candles quiver.
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,
And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots
Outside, in the night.
Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and
urgent love?
urgent love?
First published in Poetry magazine (1915).
Read on . . .
“Spring Cleaning,” a poem by Alexandria Hall