Elinor Morton Wylie

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

Escape - Poem by Elinor Morton Wylie

When foxes eat the last gold grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I'll build.

But first I'll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands,
Making blind moons of all your eyes,
And muddy roads of all your hands.

And you may grope for me in vain
In hollows under the mangrove root,
Or where, in apple-scented rain,
The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.

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Read poems about / on: fairy, silver, house, rain

Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003

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