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.

by Harold Hart Crane

Other poems of CRANE (37)

Comments (6)

...........very nice and wonderful when someone knows exactly what brings them happiness ★
yes, I agree, love endures...
The 2nd stanza; is hope-mystical. This is a midnight poem.
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That secound stanza is so raw with passion it could make stone pulse with life. This man is yearning in his own prison and all he seeks is the one who confounded him there, havent we all been there.
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