I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.
Willa Cather ( 1873 - 1947)
ACROSS the shimmering meadows--
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marsh-land--
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine--
Not what he said to me!
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marsh-land--
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine--
Not what he said to me!
Willa Cather
5 comments:
I just wrote about poets today - funny how the blog universes align that way!
I try to find a poem every Wed. I am not a poetry buff, so searching through poets is a way for me to spend some time reading poetry. I thought this was amusing. I am more familiar with Willa Cather as an author and not a poet.
Her quote is so true. I only hope that my epitaph is that I lived...every single day.
I feel I have lived for horses and I'll probably die by horse. : ) If not directly, at least by work.
I know Willa Cather as an author rather than a poet but I'm not surprised she tried poetry as her pose is often very lyrical. I like this too.
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