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poems and photographs 428

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another poem and photograph every weekday. Or so.

(photographs: Tom Davis)


Monday, April 24, 2017

 

sliver blue

 

 

 

 

blue silver

 

How many million Aprils came
Before I ever knew
How white a cherry bough could be,
A bed of squills, how blue!

And many a dancing April
When life is done with me,
Will lift the blue flame of the flower
And the white flame of the tree.

Oh burn me with your beauty, then,
Oh hurt me, tree and flower,
Lest in the end death try to take
Even this glistening hour.

O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees,
O sunlit white and blue,
Wound me, that I, through endless sleep,
May bear the scar of you.

 

Sarah Teasdale

 

 

 

 

 


 

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