Miscast I

by Amy Lowell

I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus

blade,

So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,

So sharp that the air would turn its edge

Were it to be twisted in flight.

Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,

And the mark of them lies, in and out,

Worm-like,

With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.

My brain is curved like a scimitar,

And sighs at its cutting

Like a sickle mowing grass.

But of what use is all this to me!

I, who am set to crack stones

In a country lane!


About The Editorial Staff

Comments