Elinor Morton Wylie

(7 September 1885 – 16 December 1928 / Somerville, New Jersey)

Elinor Morton Wylie Poems

1. The Poor Old Cannon 1/3/2003
2. The Church-Bell 1/3/2003
3. Spring Pastoral 1/3/2003
4. Primavera In The North 1/3/2003
5. The Crooked Stick 1/3/2003
6. Silver Filigree 1/3/2003
7. Valentine 1/3/2003
8. The Falcon 1/3/2003
9. The Fairy Goldsmith 1/3/2003
10. Prophecy 1/3/2003
11. The Tortoise In Eternity 1/3/2003
12. Village Mystery 1/3/2003
13. The Child On The Curbstone 1/3/2003
14. The Pekingese 1/3/2003
15. Sanctuary 1/3/2003
16. The Puritan's Ballad 1/3/2003
17. The Eagle And The Mole 1/3/2003
18. Venetian Interior 1/3/2003
19. Quarrel 1/3/2003
20. Nadir 1/3/2003
21. The Prinkin' Leddie 1/3/2003
22. The Lost Path 1/3/2003
23. Sunset On The Spire 1/3/2003
24. Blood Feud 1/3/2003
25. Les Lauriers Sont Coupée 1/3/2003
26. Bronze Trumpets And Sea Water - On Turning Latin Into English 1/3/2003
27. A Proud Lady 1/3/2003
28. Curious Circumstance 1/3/2003
29. Winter Sleep 1/3/2003
30. Nancy 1/3/2003
31. A Crowded Trolley-Car 1/3/2003
32. Ophelia 1/3/2003
33. Cold-Blooded Creatures 1/3/2003
34. Poor Earth 1/3/2003
35. Phases Of The Moon 1/3/2003
36. August 1/3/2003
37. The Lion And The Lamb 1/3/2003
38. Atavism 1/3/2003
39. Escape 1/3/2003
40. Bells In The Rain 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Elinor Morton Wylie

Sea Lullaby

The old moon is tarnished
With smoke of the flood,
The dead leaves are varnished
With colour like blood.

A treacherous smiler
With teeth white as milk,
A savage beguiler
In sheathings of silk

The sea creeps to pillage,
She leaps on her prey;
A child of the village
Was murdered today.

She came up to meet him
In a smooth golden cloak,
She choked him and beat him
to death, for a joke.

Her bright locks were tangled,
She shouted for joy
With one hand she strangled
A strong little boy.

Now in silence ...

Read the full of Sea Lullaby

The Lost Path

The garden's full of scented wallflowers,
And, save that these stir faintly, nothing stirs;
Only a distant bell in hollow chime
Cried out just now for far-forgoten time,
And three reverberate words the great bell spoke.
The knocker's made of brass, the door of oak,
And such a clamor must be loosed on air
By the knocker's blow that knock I do not dare.
The silence is a spell, and if it break,

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