Poem by Elinor Wylie

Nancy

You are a rose, but set with sharpest spine; 
You are a pretty bird that pecks at me; 
You are a little squirrel on a tree, 
Pelting me with the prickly fruit of the pine; 
A diamond, torn from a crystal mine, 
Not like that milky treasure of the sea, 
A smooth, translucent pearl, but skilfully 
Carven to cut, and faceted to shine.

If you are flame, it dances and burns blue; 
If you are light, it pierces like a star 
Intenser than a needlepoint of ice. 
The dextrous touch that shaped the soul of you, 
Mingled, to mix, and make you what you are, 
Magic between the sugar and the spice.

1. I Have Believed That I Prefer to Live
2. Would I Might Make Subliminal My Flesh
3. Poor Earth
4. The Pekingese
5. Now Am I Orson to Your Valentine

Robert Bloomfield Nancy ("You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume")

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