Ina D. Coolbrith Poems

Weave me a rhyme to-day:
No pleasant roundelay.
But some vague, restless yearning of the heart
Shaped with but little art
...

I
Closer the curtain. Still the sun is flame,
And the sands metal, molton!
Ah, to lie
...

To-Morrow is too far away!
A bed of spice the garden is,
Nor bud nor blossom that we miss;
The roses tremble on the stem,
...

Fair on your hills, my City,
Fair as the Queen of old,
Supreme in her seven-hilled splendor-
You, from your Gate of Gold,
...

Into the quiet woods
Come from the glare and heat
Of the paven street!
Out of the jar and fret
...

Robin sang a song for me
Once upon a day,
Never throat of Robin piped
Bonnier roundelay!
...

What do I owe the years, that I should bring
Green leaves to crown the king?
Bloen, barren sands, the thistle, and the brier,
Dead hope, and mocked desire,
...

One sang all day, more merry than the lark
That mounts the morning skies:
One silent sat, and lifted patient eyes.
...

Morning

As in a quiet dream
The mighty waters seem;
...

In winter time one steadfast hope I had:
When rains should cease to fall,
And earth resummoned all
Her blossom-quests, I should again be glad.
...