I Shall Be Loved As Quiet Things

I shall be loved as quiet things
Are loved—white pigeons in the sun,
Curled yellow leaves that whisper down
One after one;

The silver reticence of smoke
That tells no secret of its birth
Among the fiery agonies
That turn the earth;

Cloud-islands; reaching arms of trees;
The frayed and eager little moon
That strays unheeded through a high
Blue afternoon.

The thunder of my heart must go
Under the muffling of the dust--
As my gray dress has guarded it
The grasses must;

For it has hammered loud enough,
Clamored enough, when all is said:
Only its quiet part shall live
When I am dead.

--Karle Wilson Baker

I Shall Be Loved As Quiet Things

I shall be loved as quiet things
Are loved—white pigeons in the sun,
Curled yellow leaves that whisper down
One after one;

The silver reticence of smoke
That tells no secret of its birth
Among the fiery agonies
That turn the earth;

Cloud-islands; reaching arms of trees;
The frayed and eager little moon
That strays unheeded through a high
Blue afternoon.

The thunder of my heart must go
Under the muffling of the dust--
As my gray dress has guarded it
The grasses must;

For it has hammered loud enough,
Clamored enough, when all is said:
Only its quiet part shall live
When I am dead.

--Karle Wilson Baker

Days

Some days my thoughts are just cocoons—all cold, and dull, and blind,

They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;

And other days they drift and shine—such free and flying things!

I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.

- Karle Wilson Baker

Days

Some days my thoughts are just cocoons—all cold, and dull, and blind,

They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;

And other days they drift and shine—such free and flying things!

I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.

- Karle Wilson Baker

Blue Smoke

The flame of my life burns low

Under the cluttered days,

Like a fire of leaves.

But always a little blue, sweet-smelling smoke

Goes up to God.

-- Karle Wilson Baker

Blue Smoke

The flame of my life burns low

Under the cluttered days,

Like a fire of leaves.

But always a little blue, sweet-smelling smoke

Goes up to God.

-- Karle Wilson Baker