Sophia White Poems

The lot of the poet is no easy one.
Such burdens weigh the hands that wield the pen!
A poem cannot just get up and run,
A witty string of puns or pretty verse,
...

What is a gift worth
If it remains unwrapped?
What thanks are due to the giver
What delight is due to the recipient?
...

The people are so brightly clad
And sashes and scarves and jewelry fly
The air is filled with song and laughter
To which all the people set to dancing.
...

High on the stony mountain,
Swathed in fog,
Sounds a chilling, lonely gong.
I wander through the valleys,
...

Stumbling
Wearily onto the veranda
White hat in hand,
And falling into the wicker chair,
...

Up.
From the ashes.
From the pain.
Away.
...

O! The never-ending books! End on end,
Marching like a mass of scholars
Still the stacks get taller – taller!
Down the wall, up the hall,
...

Sitting in the station; waiting for the train
Shoes wet from leftover puddles
The vestiges of last night’s rain
Everyone walking past looks muddled
...

The sky is low and thick with clouds of despair
And I – I wait. For what? I don’t know.
The world is wet and damp with rains of tears.
And I – I hope. For what? I don’t know.
...

Too tired. Gazing up. Life gone.
The world is terribly white.
Very scared. Eyes wide. Heart numb.
My dreams are nowhere in sight.
...