We flee the city of fire and ice,
Her bells still tolling from her golden spires,
To sing to us, 'Thy silence shall suffice, '
Before sun sets on snow in nightly pyres.
Her winter is the death of our desires,
As we labour in the damp, dark cold
To listen for her stars' celestial choirs
That chant to us, 'Grow bold, rather than old.'
Her summer is the story never told!
Even though we say, 'It is the best, '
Sometimes her heat feels the most cold,
So, for her weather, we seem cursed, not blessed.
The sun entombed in mountains of the West
Is born from her womb, not at her behest.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (To Denver by Luc Leclaire )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
- Vikram G. Aarella
(3 February 1874 – 27 July 1946)
(3 June 1926 – 5 April 1997)
- Raymond J Wright
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- There is another sky, Emily Dickinson