I read Donald Hall lost his wife to leukemia Mossy and that loss has obviously influenced his poetry. The same as it did for Thomas Hardy http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...gebit/sad2.gif.
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I read Donald Hall lost his wife to leukemia Mossy and that loss has obviously influenced his poetry. The same as it did for Thomas Hardy http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...gebit/sad2.gif.
indeed alf, here is a poignant poem linked with this....
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5728
Alone for a week
Jane Kenyon
I washed a load of clothes
and hung them out to dry.
Then I went up to town
and busied myself all day.
The sleeve of your best shirt
rose ceremonious
when I drove in; our night-
clothes twined and untwined in
a little gust of wind.
For me it was getting late;
for you, where you were, not.
The harvest moon was full
but sparse clouds made its light
not quite reliable.
The bed on your side seemed
as wide and flat as Kansas;
your pillow plump, cool,
and allegorical. . . .
I can't remember if I posted this before but I am reading an excellent biography on Edna St. Vincent Millay at the moment called 'Savage Beauty'.
This is one of her sonnets:
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand,
In such a way that the extremest band
Of brittle seaweed will escape my door
But by a yard or two; and nevermore
Shall I return to take you by the hand;
I shall be gone to what I understand,
And happier than I ever was before.
The love that stood a moment in your eyes,
The words that lay a moment on your tongue,
Are one with all that in a moment dies,
A little under-said and over-sung.
But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies
Unchanged from what they were when I was young.
Edna St. Vincent Millay