As we are so wonderfully done with each other
We can walk into our separate sleep
On floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood lies
O my lady, my fairest dear, my sweetest, loveliest one
Your lips have splashed my dull house with the speech of flowers
My hands are hallowed where they touched over your
It is good to be weary from that brilliant work
It is being God to feel your breathing under me
A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning . . .
Don’t let anyone in to wake us.
When I was young, the world was frightening. I first read Patchen in high school back in the early sixties. He made the world understandable for me. This is a beautiful poem. It's a good poem to help become acquainted with Patchen because he can be so sharp. But even here you can can see the undeniable passion that inhabits all his work. I felt I could connect with him. He was somebody that understood my world.
One of the most evocative poems I've read.
The happiness of family life it is a wonderful experience and beautiful poem.
A very romantic and passionate write. Two lovers reveling in each other. Lovely.
The only problem I have with this type of poem is that they are too often confused with love poetry. Mr. Patchen quite elegantly described the feelings of elation when one is in a fairly new relationship - a time when Mother Nature and hormones are at their hardest work. True love, appreciation of the soul, not the body, comes long after the 'walking on air' feel when we first begin to court another. IMO... With that said I must say this is a most tender, beautiful poem.
In poetry there are no problems - only words creating images. The confusion is in your mind. It is a love poem!
Long time favorite. Discovered again because of this web site. Many thanks.
Absolutely gorgeous read. One of the best I've ever appreciated.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
I have had this poem since 1964, the second stanza reads: oh my love, my golden lark, my soft long doll Your lips have splashed my dull house with print of flowers My hands are crooked where they have spilled over your dear curving