Amy Lowell (9 February 1874 – 12 May 1925 / Boston, Massachusetts)
When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.
Read poems about / on: red
Comments about this poem (Decade by Amy Lowell )
People who read Amy Lowell also read
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley