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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343757" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Blue Scarf</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded<br>In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,<br>it lies there,<br>Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing.<br>Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me!<br>A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down<br>on my face,<br>And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim<br>in cool-tinted heavens.<br>Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.<br>Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles.<br>A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied<br>Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin,<br>Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf<br>On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour.<br>She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath<br>her slight stirring.<br>Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel<br>Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to<br>a handful of cinders,<br>And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343757" data-title="The Blue Scarf de Amy Lowell" data-description="Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded
In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,
it lies there,
Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing.
Where is she,..."></div>
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