Poem by Harold Hart Crane

Exile

My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, —
No, — nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell',
And with the day, distance again expands
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell.

Yet, love endures, though starving and alone.
A dove's wings clung about my heart each night
With surging gentleness, and the blue stone
Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.

1. Legend
2. To Emily Dickinson
3. Carrier Letter
4. Interior
5. Voyages 4

Conrad Aiken Exile ("These hills are sandy. Trees are dwarfed here. Crows")

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