Harold Hart Crane

(21 July 1899 – 27 April 1932 / Garrettsville, Ohio)

Exile


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.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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  • Rookie Kesha Joan (7/7/2013 7:59:00 PM)

    Start working at home with Google! It's by-far the best job Ive had. Last Monday I got a new Alfa Romeo from bringing in $7778. I started this 9 months ago and practically straight away started making more than $83 per hour. I work through this link, Bling6.com (Report) Reply

  • Freshman - 1,782 Points Kevin Patrick (7/7/2012 7:06:00 PM)

    That secound stanza is so raw with passion it could make stone pulse with life. This man is yearning in his own prison and all he seeks is the one who confounded him there, havent we all been there. (Report) Reply

  • Rookie - 182 Points Karen Sinclair (7/7/2012 3:35:00 AM)

    Unusually delicate for a man and for that reason (to me) makes this express his adoration even more than normal.
    The title just marries this write wonderfully (exile) speaks volumes of Harolds solitude. I think the reason i appreciate this so much is he uses slightly unusual terms as opposed to the expected (my love and darling) writes....truly a rare little gem (Report) Reply

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