Harold Hart Crane
Harold Hart Crane was an American poet. Finding both inspiration and provocation in the poetry of T.S. Eliot, Crane wrote modernist poetry that is difficult, highly stylized, and very ambitious in its scope. In his most ambitious work, The Bridge, Crane sought to write an epic poem in the vein of The Waste Land that expressed something more sincere and optimistic than the ironic despair that Crane found in Eliot's poetry. In the years following his suicide at the age of 32, Crane has come to be seen as one of the most influential poets of his generation.
Life and Work
Hart Crane was born in Garrettsville, Ohio. His father, Clarence, was a successful Ohio businessman who... more »
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Harold Hart Crane Poems
My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, -- No, -- nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell', And with the day, distance again expands Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell.
We will make our meek adjustments, Contented with such random consolations As the wind deposits In slithered and too ample pockets.
Forgetfulness is like a song That, freed from beat and measure, wanders. Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled, Outspread and motionless, --
As silent as a mirror is believed Realities plunge in silence by . . . I am not ready for repentance; Nor to match regrets. For the moth
At Melville's Tomb
Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge The dice of drowned men's bones he saw bequeath An embassy. Their numbers as he watched, Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.
It sheds a shy solemnity, This lamp in our poor room. O grey and gold amenity, -- Silence and gentle gloom!
The Broken Tower
The bell-rope that gathers God at dawn Dispatches me as though I dropped down the knell Of a spent day - to wander the cathedral lawn
My Grandmother's Love Letters
There are no stars to-night But those of memory. Yet how much room for memory there is In the loose girdle of soft rain.
The Great Western Plains
The little voices of the prairie dogs Are tireless . . . They will give three hurrahs Alike to stage, equestrian, and pullman,
Carmen De Boheme
Sinuously winding through the room On smokey tongues of sweetened cigarettes, -- Plaintive yet proud the cello tones resume The andante of smooth hopes and lost regrets.
The Visible, The Untrue
Yes, I being the terrible puppet of my dreams, shall lavish this on you- the dense mine of the orchid, split in two.
A Name For All
Moonmoth and grasshopper that flee our page And still wing on, untarnished of the name We pinion to your bodies to assuage
Repose Of Rivers
The willows carried a slow sound, A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead. I could never remember
The host, he says that all is well And the fire-wood glow is bright; The food has a warm and tempting smell,- But on the window licks the night.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, --
No, -- nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell',
And with the day, distance again expands
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell.
Yet, love endures, though starving and alone.
A dove's wings clung about my heart each night
With surging gentleness, and the blue stone
Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.