In The Public Library
Standing on tiptoe, head back, eyes and arm
Upraised, Kate groped to reach the higher shelf.
Her sleeve slid up like darkness in alarm
At gleam of dawn. Impatient with herself
For lack of inches, careless of her charm,
She strained to grasp a volume; then she turned
Back to her chair, an unforgetful Eve
Still snatching at the fruit for which she yearned
In Eden. She read idly to relieve
The forehead where her daylong studies burned,
Tales of an uncrowned queen who fed her child
On poisons, till death lurked, in act to spring,
Between the girl's breasts; who with soft mouth smiled
With soft eyes tempted the usurping King
Then dealt him death in kisses. Kate had piled
Her books three deep before her and across
This barricade she watched an old man nod
Over a dirty paper, until loss
Of life seemed better than possession. Shod
With kisses death might skid like thistle floss
Down windy slides, might prove at heart as gay
As Cinderella in glass slippers.
Life goes awkwardly so sandalled. Had decay
Been the girl's gift in that Miltonic strife
She would have rivalled God, Kate thought. A ray
Of sunshine carrying gilded flecks of dust
And minutes bright with fancies, touched her hair
To powder it with gold and silver, just
As if being now admitted she should wear
The scholar's wig, colleague of those whose lust
For beauty hidden in an outworn tongue
Had made it possible for her to read
Tales that were fathered in Arabia, sung
By trouvères and forgotten with their creed
Of love and magic. Beams that strayed among
Kate's fingers lit a rosy lantern there
To glow in twilight. Suddenly afraid
She seemed to see her beauty in a flare
Of light from hell. A throng of devils swayed
Before her, devils that had learned to wear
The shape of scholar, poet, libertine.
They smiled, frowned, beckoned, swearing to estrange
Kate from reflection that her soul had been
Slain by her woman's body or would change
From contact with it to a thing unclean.
Woman was made to worship man, they preached,
Not God, to serve earth's purpose, not to roam
The heavens of thought . . . A factory whistle screeched,
Someone turned up the lights. On her way home
Kate wondered in what mode were angels breeched.
poem by Lesbia Harford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Baby Kate
Kate closes the door
falls to her bedroom floor
kate cant even stand
the results in her hand
Kate closes her eyes
sees happiness she tries
to see a new world
but theres a worried girl
A girl stood staring
showing concern, caring
her heart is broken
looks up her eyes open
Kate picks herself up
a nightmare kate is shook
sees her reflection
then she asks a question
Can i get through this?
it was also her whish
can this pain be gone?
but kate doesnt respond
Puts on her lipstick
she had been feeling sick
so she took the test
kates chronicaly depressed
Posative results
kate took many insults
through out her life time
now isnt the right time
A jobs on the way
to give kate better pay
but kate can not work
it is over for her
Kate sits in her room
mayby a baby soon
kates next door neighber
kates neighbers in laber
Kates neighbers baby
is so small its crazy
the test was posative
kate never had a kid
Kate only whishes
that she could have a kid
that she could just live
kates test was posative
Just a simple smear
cancer and it was clear
kate didnt want
anyone to hear
The neighbers baby
came home it was crazy
police were everywhere
ambulances were there
At exacly seven
kate went to heaven
but for what its worth
a new baby girl
named after kate
came down to earth
and when kate went to heaven
baby kate was born
at exacly seven.
poem by Daniel McCann
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The Daft Days
The midnight hour is clinking, lads,
An' the douce an' the decent are winking, lads;
Sae I tell ye again,
Be't weel or ill ta'en,
It's time ye were quatting your drinking, lads.
Gae ben, 'an mind your gauntry, Kate,
Gi'es mair o' your beer, an' less bantry, Kate,
For we vow, whaur we sit,
That afore we shall flit,
We'se be better acquaint wi' your pantry, Kate.
The "daft days" are but beginning, Kate,
An we're sworn. Would you hae us a sinning, Kate?
By our faith an' our houp,
We will stick by the stoup
As lang as the barrel keeps rinning, Kate.
Thro' hay, an' thro' hairst, sair we toil it, Kate,
Thro' Simmer, an' Winter, we moil it, Kate;
Sae ye ken, whan the wheel
Is beginning to squeal,
It's time for to grease an' to oil it, Kate.
Sae draw us anither drappy, Kate,
An' gie us a cake to our cappy, Kate;
For, by spiggot an' pin!
It's waur than a sin
To flit when we're sitting sae happy, Kate.
poem by Hew Ainslie
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The Mad Wanderer
There came to Grasmere's pleasant vale
A stranger maid in tatters clad,
Whose eyes were wild, whose cheek was pale,
While oft she cried, "Poor Kate is mad!"
Four words were all she'd ever say,
Nor would she shelter in a cot;
And e'en in winter's coldest day
She still would cry, "My brain is hot."
A look she had of better days;
And once, while o'er the hills she ranged,
We saw her on her tatters gaze,
And heard her say, "How Kate is changed!"
Whene'er she heard the death-bell sound,
Her face grew dreadful to behold;
She started, trembled, beat the ground,
And shuddering cried, "Poor Kate is cold!"
And when to church we brought the dead,
She came in ragged mourning drest;
The coffin-plate she trembling read,
Then laughing cried, "Poor Kate is blest!"
But when a wedding peal was rung,
With dark revengeful leer she smiled,
And, curses muttering on her tongue,
She loudly screamed, "Poor Kate is wild!"
To be in Grasmere church interred,
A corpse one day from far was brought;
Poor Kate the death-bell sounding heard,
And reached the aisle as quick as thought:
When on the coffin looking down,
She started, screamed, and back retired,
Then clasped it....breathing such a groan!
And with that dreadful groan expired.
poem by Amelia Opie
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Kate O'Belashanny
Seek up and down, both fair and brown,
We've purty lasses many, O;
But brown or fair, one girl most rare,
The Flow'r o' Belashanny, O.
As straight is she as poplar-tree
(Tho' not as aisy shaken, O,)
And walks so proud among the crowd,
For queen she might be taken, O.
From top to toe, where'er you go,
The loveliest girl of any, O,-
Ochone! your mind I find unkind,
Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!
One summer day the banks were gay,
The Erne in sunshine glancin' there,
The big cascade its music play'd
And set the salmon dancin' there.
Along the green my Joy was seen;
Some goddess bright I thought her there;
The fishes, too, swam close, to view
Her image in the water there.
From top to toe, where'er you go,
The loveliest girl of any, O,-
Ochone! your mind I find unkind,
Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!
My dear, give ear!-the river's near,
And if you think I'm shammin' now,
To end my grief I'll seek relief
Among the trout and salmon, now;
For shrimps and sharks to make their marks,
And other watery vermin there;
Unless a mermaid saves my life,-
My wife, and me her merman there.
From top to toe, where'er you go,
The loveliest girl of any, O,-
Mavrone! your mind I find unkind,
Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!
'Tis all in vain that I complain;
No use to coax or chide her there;
As far away from me as Spain,
Although I stand beside her there.
O cruel Kate! since that's my fate,
I'll look for love no more in you;
The seagull's screech as soon would reach
Your heart, as me implorin' you.
Tho' fair you are, and rare you are,
The loveliest flow'r of any, O,-
Too proud and high,-good-bye, say I,
To Kate o' Belashanny, O!
poem by William Allingham
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Do Bears
Rowan Atkinson:
For years I thought
I'd have to live alone
I never got a letter
Had to disconnect the phone
The only girls I ever saw
Were on TV
But now I've got a Venus
Who's sitting next to me
Both:
Do I love you?
Do I want you?
Would I give my life
To you if I could?
Do birds fly?
Do fish swim?
And do bears sha-la-la-la-la
In the woods?
Rowan:
I met her in the first class lounge
Of a jumbo jet
It was love at first sight
Romeo and Juliet
Kate:
He looked pretty rich
And I was down on m' luck
So I charged him a fortune
For a flying f...
Rowan:
...for crying out loud!
Both:
Do I love you?
Do I want you?
Would I sacrifice my life
To you if I could?
Is the Pope Catholic?
Is Luxembourg small?
And do those hairy bears shhh...
In the woods?
Rowan:
I introduced her round my friends
She was ace
I was no longer on Earth
But in better place
Kate:
He's an utter creep and he
Drives me round the bend
And so to alleviate the boredom
I sleep with his friends
Rowan:
Ho ha ho
Both:
Do I love you?
Do I want you?
Kate:
Would I tear out both my eyes
And fry them if I could?
Both:
Is the Bible fiction?
Is True Love a contradiction?
And do bears sha-la-la-la-la
In the woods?
Do I desire you?
Do I adore you?
Rowan:
Would I cut off all my toenails
And put them in an envelope with my feet?
Both:
Is Reagan Godhead?
Is Chairman Mao dead?
And do those bears sha-la-la-la-la?
Rowan [really Tim Brooke-Taylor]:
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-ah
Kate:
Mmmmm...
Rowan [Tim]:
And do those bears sha-la-la-la-la?
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-ah
Kate:
Ahoo Ahoo
Yeah-ye-yeah Yeah-ye-yeah
Both:
Do those bears sha-la-la-la-ah?
Rowan:
On Main Street
Kate:
Oh Yeah Yeah-ye-yeah
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cousin Kate
I was a cottage maiden
Hardened by sun and air
Contented with my cottage mates,
Not mindful I was fair.
Why did a great lord find me out,
And praise my flaxen hair?
Why did a great lord find me out,
To fill my heart with care?
He lured me to his palace home -
Woe's me for joy thereof-
To lead a shameless shameful life,
His plaything and his love.
He wore me like a silken knot,
He changed me like a glove;
So now I moan, an unclean thing,
Who might have been a dove.
O Lady kate, my cousin Kate,
You grew more fair than I:
He saw you at your father's gate,
Chose you, and cast me by.
He watched your steps along the lane,
Your work among the rye;
He lifted you from mean estate
To sit with him on high.
Because you were so good and pure
He bound you with his ring:
The neighbors call you good and pure,
Call me an outcast thing.
Even so I sit and howl in dust,
You sit in gold and sing:
Now which of us has tenderer heart?
You had the stronger wing.
O cousin Kate, my love was true,
Your love was writ in sand:
If he had fooled not me but you,
If you stood where I stand,
He'd not have won me with his love
Nor bought me with his land;
I would have spit into his face
And not have taken his hand.
Yet I've a gift you have not got,
And seem not like to get:
For all your clothes and wedding-ring
I've little doubt you fret.
My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride,
Cling closer, closer yet:
Your father would give his lands for one
To wear his coronet.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Good Company
We sat in the kitchen all night drinking Irish tea
and talking till first light about women in literature
Kate, Cordelia, Wyfe of Bath, Antigone, Lady Mac
shrew, fond daughter, lively bawd, tough chick, bitch!
We talked for hours on end about women's roles-
how they talk & nag, play at love, fight male tyranny,
these shrews, daughters, bawds, women & wretches-
one loves a dad too well, one aids & abets Murder One
they talk, they nag, they play the field, they stand & die
one is tamed, a second hanged, another desperate
for love, one loves an aging dad, one inspires murder,
a loyal sister condemned, a cold-hearted queen dies!
Kate's tamed, Cordelia's executed, Wyfe seeks spouse #6,
Shakespeare's Taming fills the Globe, Chaucer's Tales
read in English, Antigone dies, a queen defenestrates!
Sophocles takes first and Macbeth's a great film!
Kiss Me, Kate is box office boffo! Wyfe's Tale a feminist rant!
Kate, Cordelia, Wyfe of Bath, Antigone & Lady Macbeth-
Sophocles takes home gold! Macbeth cops an Oscar!
We sat in the kitchen till first light drinking Irish tea!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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With her Grandma, Kate sat by the Liffey
Where they washed when their bonnets got whiffey
'Tis here Kate was taught
Not to fash nor get fraught
When she learned even clean things got stiffey.
quote by by Margaret Kollmer
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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In Bohemia
Ha! My dear! I'm back again--
Vendor of Bohemia's wares!
Lordy! How it pants a man
Climbing up those awful stairs!
Well, I've made the dealer say
Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway!
And I've made a publisher
Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.
In Bohemia, Kate, my dear--
Lodgers in a musty flat
On the top floor--living here
Neighborless, and used to that,--
Like a nest beneath the eaves,
So our little home receives
Only guests of chirping cheer--
We'll be happy, Kate, my dear!
Under your north-light there, you
At your easel, with a stain
On your nose of Prussian blue,
Paint your bits of shine and rain;
With my feet thrown up at will
O'er my littered window-sill,
I write rhymes that ring as clear
As your laughter, Kate, my dear.
Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair--
Bite my pencil-tip and gaze
At you, mutely mooning there
O'er your 'Aprils' and your 'Mays!'
Equal inspiration in
Dimples of your cheek and chin,
And the golden atmosphere
Of your paintings, Kate, my dear!
_Trying_! Yes, at times it is,
To clink happy rhymes, and fling
On the canvas scenes of bliss,
When we are half famishing!--
When your 'jersey' rips in spots,
And your hat's 'forget-me-nots'
Have grown tousled, old and sere--
It is trying, Kate, my dear!
But--as sure--_some_ picture sells,
And--sometimes--the poetry--
Bless us! How the parrot yells
His acclaims at you and me!
How we revel then in scenes
Of high banqueting!--sardines--
Salads--olives--and a sheer
Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!
Even now I cross your palm,
With this great round world of gold!--
'Talking wild?' Perhaps I am--
Then, this little five-year-old!--
Call it anything you will,
So it lifts your face until
I may kiss away that tear
Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Preservation
My maiden she proved false to me;
To hate all joys I soon began,
Then to a flowing stream I ran,--
The stream ran past me hastily.
There stood I fix'd, in mute despair;
My head swam round as in a dream;
I well-nigh fell into the stream,
And earth seem'd with me whirling there.
Sudden I heard a voice that cried--
I had just turn'd my face from thence--
It was a voice to charm each sense:
"Beware, for deep is yonder tide!"
A thrill my blood pervaded now,
I look'd and saw a beauteous maid
I asked her name--twas Kate, she said--
"Oh lovely Kate! how kind art thou!
"From death I have been sav'd by thee,
'Tis through thee only that I live;
Little 'twere life alone to give,
My joy in life then deign to be!"
And then I told my sorrows o'er,
Her eyes to earth she sweetly threw;
I kiss'd her, and she kiss'd me too,
And--then I talked of death no more.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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I'd much rather be known as some curvy Kate than as some skinny stick.
quote by Kate Winslet
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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At Variance
When with me the play she goes,
I much admire the buds and bows
And all that on Kate’s headgear grows.
But when some other night I see
That hat between the stage and me,
My taste and Kate’s do not agree.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Last Night
Where were you last night? I watched at the gate;
I went down early, I stayed down late.
Were you snug at home, I should like to know,
Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?
She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin;
Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win.
Speak up like a man and tell me the truth:
I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.
If you love her best speak up like a man;
It's not I will stand in the light of your plan:
Some girls might cry and scold you a bit,
And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.
Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast;
Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last;
Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane,
Now dropped away into the past.
Was it pleasant to you? To me it was;
Now clean gone as an image from glass,
As a goodly rainbow that fades away,
As dew that steams upward from the grass,
As the first spring day, or the last summer day,
As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey,
As a flame burnt out for lack of oil,
Which no pains relight or ever may.
Good luck to Kate and good luck to you:
I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo.
I wish her a pretty face that will last,
I wish her a husband steady and true.
Hate you? not I, my very good friend;
All things begin and all have an end.
But let broken be broken; I put no faith
In quacks who set up to patch and mend.
Just my love and one word to Kate:
Not to let time slip if she means to mate;—
For even such a thing has been known
As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Staten Island Summer
Ashley Greene, Kate McKinnon, Gina Gershon, Kate Walsh, Jim Gaffigan, Will Forte, Brett Azar, Method Man
by Colin Jost from Staten Island Summer (2015)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Baby's Death
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.
Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.
Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.
The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?
A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.
Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen complete
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod
The little feet.
The little hands that never sought
Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands,
What gift has death, God's servant, brought
The little hands?
We ask: but love's self silent stands,
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought
To search where death's dim heaven expands.
Ere this, perchance, though love know nought,
Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,
Where hands of guiding angels caught
The little hands.
The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes?
Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?
No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.
Was life so strange, so sad the sky,
So strait the wide world's range,
He would not stay to wonder why
Was life so strange?
Was earth's fair house a joyless grange
Beside that house on high
Whence Time that bore him failed to estrange?
That here at once his soul put by
All gifts of time and change,
And left us heavier hearts to sigh
'Was life so strange?'
Angel by name love called him, seeing so fair
The sweet small frame;
Meet to be called, if ever man's child were,
Angel by name.
Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart he came,
And might not bear
The cloud that covers earth's wan face with shame.
His little light of life was all too rare
And soft a flame:
Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him there
Angel by name.
The song that smiled upon his birthday here
Weeps on the grave that holds him undefiled
Whose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tear
The song that smiled.
His name crowned once the mightiest ever styled
Sovereign of arts, and angel: fate and fear
Knew then their master, and were reconciled.
But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphere
Michael, an angel and a little child,
Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bier
The song that smiled.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Sacrament
Kate Lyn Sheil, Joe Swanberg, Amy Seimetz, Kate Lyn Sheil, AJ Bowen, Gene Jones, Kentucker Audley, Dennis Clark
by Ti West from The Sacrament (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Going to School
Did you see them pass to-day, Billy, Kate and Robin,
All astride upon the back of old grey Dobbin?
Jigging, jogging off to school, down the dusty track -
What must Dobbin think of it - three upon his back?
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Billy holding on behind, his legs out straight.
Now they're coming back from school, jig, jog, jig.
See them at the corner where the gums grow big;
Dobbin flicking off the flies and blinking at the sun -
Having three upon his back he thinks is splendid fun:
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Little Billy up behind, his legs out straight.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Singapore Border Blues
I came by bus in a swirl of dust in the summer of seventy two.
I was young, I was poor, I hoped to score but I really hadn't a clue.
The seats were hard; I was on my guard when we bolted from the bus.
The border was there, but I had long hair so they readied to hassle us.
They were men in blue, a few women too, taking our arrival card.
They saw my face, they knew their place, they were going to make it hard.
"You have an air; you have long hair so you must observe our laws"
So Kate my friend did a bend and pulled out her best scissors.
She got to work, without a jerk and as quick as a Christmas sale,
She snip here, she snip there until my scalp was bare and pale.
His face turned sour, this was not my hour and he gave me back my case,
"You littered the floor, there's the door, you're not welcomed at this place."
So I left my hair and without much care, I turned and went on with our trip.
My head was bald but I wasn't cold and we eventually caught a ship.
It's been many a year, and Kate's gone from here since that incident.
I have a wife, I have a life and I have been quite content.
I travelled wide, gone with the tide and corners of the world I saw.
I made it a rule, it was even cool, to make sure to avoid Singapore.
Until one day, it would be fair to say, that the city needed my skills,
Return this way, there's plenty of pay, enough to cover my bills.
The flight was easy, I was never queasy, so I walked into the arrival hall:
Airport was clean, like a big machine, but the impression: good overall.
The men were in blue, a woman there too, who took the pass from my hand,
She gave a smile to greet, offered a sweet and welcomed me to this land.
For a small fee, I took the M.R.T., and the ad. there made me stare
Phone Beijing 101*, to have this done: Singapore will re-grow my hair.
In memory of
Kate Langley
1953 - 2006
*Beijing 101 have hair restoration clinics in Singapore
Black Kate
KATE, they say, is seventeen—
Do not count her sweet, you know.
Arms of her are rather lean—
Ditto, calves and feet, you know.
Features of Hellenic type
Are not patent here, you see.
Katie loves a black clay pipe—
Doesn’t hate her beer, you see.
Spartan Helen used to wear
Tresses in a plait, perhaps:
Kate has ochre in her hair—
Nose is rather flat, perhaps.
Rose Lorraine’s surpassing dress
Glitters at the ball, you see:
Daughter of the wilderness
Has no dress at all, you see.
Laura’s lovers every day
In sweet verse embody her:
Katie’s have a different way,
Being frank, they “waddy” her.
Amy by her suitor kissed,
Every nightfall looks for him:
Kitty’s sweetheart isn’t missed—
Kitty “humps” and cooks for him.
Smith, and Brown, and Jenkins, bring
Roses to the fair, you know.
Darkies at their Katie fling
Hunks of native bear, you know.
English girls examine well
All the food they take, you twig:
Kate is hardly keen of smell—
Kate will eat a snake, you twig.
Yonder lady’s sitting room—
Clean and cool and dark it is:
Kitty’s chamber needs no broom—
Just a sheet of bark it is.
You may find a pipe or two
If you poke and grope about:
Not a bit of starch or blue—
Not a sign of soap about.
Girl I know reads Lalla Rookh—
Poem of the “heady” sort:
Kate is better as a cook
Of the rough and ready sort.
Byron’s verse on Waterloo,
Makes my darling glad, you see:
Kate prefers a kangaroo—
Which is very sad, you see.
Other ladies wear a hat
Fit to write a sonnet on:
Kitty has—the naughty cat—
Neither hat nor bonnet on!
Fifty silks has Madame Tate—
She who loves to spank it on:
All her clothes are worn by Kate
When she has her blanket on.
Let her rip! the Phrygian boy
Bolted with a brighter one;
And the girl who ruined Troy
Was a rather whiter one.
Katie’s mouth is hardly Greek—
Hardly like a rose it is:
Katie’s nose is not antique—
Not the classic nose it is.
Dryad in the grand old day,
Though she walked the woods about,
Didn’t smoke a penny clay—
Didn’t “hump” her goods about.
Daphne by the fairy lake,
Far away from din and all,
Never ate a yard of snake,
Head and tail and skin and all.
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poor Young Shepherd
Of a kiss I’m afraid
as of bees in the skies,
I suffer, I wake,
and no rest may find, take: -
of a kiss I’m afraid!
Yet I love Kate, my maid,
and her beautiful eyes,
with her delicate air
white and slender, so fair:
how I love Kate, my maid!
‘Tis St. Valentine’s Day -
I dare not, though I try
my promise to make: -
what a dreadful mistake
is St. Valentine’s Day.
She is sworn, the vow’s made, -
what a joy Life supplies!
Act the lover, I swear
is so difficult where
love to loved won court’s paid.
Of a kiss I’m afraid
as of bees in the skies,
I suffer, I wake,
and no rest may find, take: -
of a kiss I’m afraid!
poem by Paul Verlaine, translated by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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