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Poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese


A Violin at Dusk


Stumble to silence, all you uneasy things,
That pack the day with bluster and with fret.
For here is music at each window set;
Here is a cup which drips with all the springs
That ever bud a cowslip flower; a roof
To shelter till the argent weathers break;
A candle with enough of light to make
My courage bright against each dark reproof.
A hand's width of clear gold, unraveled out
The rosy sky, the little moon appears;
As they were splashed upon the paling red,
Vast, blurred, the village poplars lift about.
I think of young, lost things: of lilacs; tears;
I think of an old neighbor, long since dead. 



                      Lizette Woodworth Reese


Lizette Woodworth Reese's other poems:
  1. Herbs
  2. Spicewood
  3. Writ in a Book of Welsh Verse
  4. A Song for Candlemas
  5. Lydia is gone this many a year


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