Arthur Davison Ficke Poems

Gone are the three, those sisters rare
   With wonder-lips and eyes ashine.
One was wise and one was fair,
   And one was mine.
...

I am in love with high far-seeing places
That look on plains half-sunlight and half-storm, --
In love with hours when from the circling faces
Veils pass, and laughing fellowship glows warm.
...

I am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise,
And the armor and the mask of these fall from me, after long.
...

Skeptical cat,
Calm your eyes, and come to me.
For long ago, in some palmed forest,
I too felt claws curling
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OH my little house of glass!
How carefully
I have planted shrubbery
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Like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
Still keeps the memory of one secret star
That in the dusk of a remembered June
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Gray-robed Wanderer in sleep . . . Wanderer . . .
You also move among
Those silent halls
...

I would not in the early morning
Start my mind on its inevitable journey
Toward the East.
There are white domes somewhere
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She limps with halting painful pace,
Stops, wavers and creeps on again;
Peers up with dim and questioning face,
...

Sit here where I could touch your hand If that should be my sudden will:
Among the shadows where we wait
I shall not stir.
...