"A young woman
In a black and simple dress
With a delicate white collar,
Dark old-fashioned desk
With a single candle
Tearing wax,
Books, papers, and notes,
A bottle of ink
Are lavishly covering
Everything.
A quill in hand,
Long fingers, silver rings
Are richly spotted
With purple ink.
She’s staring at
The flickering flame,
Searching for words and images,
Recites what isn’t written yet –
A dreamy woman,
A little Poetess".
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4 comments:
"Call it not vain:
They do not err
Who say that when the poet dies
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies"
Natalie, I hope you know, I do love you. You are so beautiful and intelligent. I enjoy your poems so much.
Have a great weekend
You “picked” a poem, the very first one, to tell me that! Nice!
You are beautiful and intelligent too, and, probably, misunderstood and misinterpreted often which makes us fellows-in-misery(!!!). Kidding! We all love you.
In anticipation of the poet of tomorrow,the poet yet to be born.
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