Cinquains

Fate Defied

As it
Were tissue of silver
I'll wear, O fate, thy grey,
And go mistily radiant, clad
Like the moon.

Night Winds

The old
Old winds that blew
When chaos was, what do
They tell the clattered trees that I
Should weep?

The Warning

Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . .
A white moth flew . . . Why am I grown
So cold?

by Adelaide Crapsey

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Comments (1)

Deep and sometimes ambiguous but this sonnet redeems itself in the end. Good reading. Read mine: Sonnet Beyond Love Adeline