Is It Poetry
Why, when the Sun
Why, when the sun,
I would sing of my love to the sunlight,
and now as I watch you looking off I am to distant, but how?
Some else that came, did not look at your smile.
Thinking of you I look at the sun in the sky.
I have like you thought about blowing winds.
But however deep you may be, I am as she with the sea.
I can feel the warmth on my eyes on my face.
Stop for the moment come over the dune and you feel.
Once coming here often, came the sweet rain.
Sweeping over the shore,
and each dropp as it falls in my mouth tastes like what I miss.
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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