Loneliness Poem by Ina Coolbrith
Loneliness
THE waning moon was up; the
Were faint, and very few;
The vines about the window-sill
Were wet with falling dew;
A little, cloud before the wind
Was drifting down the west;
I heard the moaning of the sea
In its unquiet rest:
Until, I know not from what grief,
Or thought of other years,
The hand I leaned upon was cold,
And wet with falling tears.
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4/26/2024 2:00:28 AM # 1.0.0.1119
