You have not conquered me—it is the surge
Of love itself that beats against my will;
It is the sting of conflict, the old urge
...
What nudity as beautiful as this
Obedient monster purring at its toil;
These naked iron muscles dripping oil
...
“Do you remember at the rainbow's end
Those flowers trampled by the hurrying rain,
Hanging their heads, knowing they would not spend
...
I never knew the earth had so much gold --
The fields run over with it, and this hill,
Hoary and old,
Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.
...
Why
Is the sky?
What starts the thunder overhead?
Who makes the crashing noise?
...
God, I return to You on April days
When along country roads You walk with me,
And my faith blossoms like the earliest tree
That shames the bleak world with its yellow sprays --
...
Why are the things that have no death
The ones with neither sight nor breath!
Eternity is thrust upon
A bit of earth, a senseless stone.
...
What sudden bugle calls us in the night
And wakes us from a dream that we had shaped;
Flinging us sharply up against a fight
We thought we had escaped.
...
How much of Godhood did it take --
What purging epochs had to pass,
Ere I was fit for leaf and lake
And worthy of the patient grass?
...
MAY nothing evil cross this door,
And may ill-fortune never pry
About these windows; may the roar
And rains go by.
...
On the warm Sunday afternoons
And every evening in the Spring and Summer
When the night hurries the late home-corner
...
I
Pause, God, and ponder, ere Thou judgest me.
Though it be doomsday, and the trampling winds
...
What are we bound for? What’s the yield
Of all this energy and waste?
Why do we spend ourselves and build
With such an empty haste?
...
The quiet and courageous night,
A The keen vibration of the stars,
Call me, from morbid peace, to fight
...
LO, to the battle-ground of Life,
Child, you have come, like a conquering shout,
Out of a struggle—into strife;
Out of a darkness—into doubt.
...
Spring!
And her hidden bugles up the street.
Spring -- and the sweet
Laughter of winds at the crossing;
...
Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
...
Shut out the light or let it filter through
These frowning aisles as penitentially
As though it walked in sackcloth. Let it be
...
THE eager night and the impetuous winds,
The hints and whispers of a thousand lures,
And all the swift persuasion of the Spring,
...
We lay together in the sultry night.
A feeble light
From some invisible street-lamp crept
...
Infidelity
You have not conquered me—it is the surge
Of love itself that beats against my will;
It is the sting of conflict, the old urge
That calls me still.
It is not you I love—it is the form
And shadow of all lovers who have died
That gives you all the freshness of a warm
And unfamiliar bride.
It is your name I breathe, your hands I seek;
It will be you when you are gone.
And yet the dream, the name I never speak,
Is that that lures me on.
It is the golden summons, the bright wave
Of banners calling me anew;
It is all beauty, perilous and grave—
It is not you.
Can anyone tell me the name of a poem that appeared at the end of I Love Lucy show by Untermeyer?