Karle Wilson Baker
I was The Gateway. Here they came, and passed,
The homespun centaurs with their arms of steel
And taut heart-strings: wild wills, who thought to deal
Bare-handed with jade Fortune, tracked at last
Out of her silken lairs into the vast
Of a Man’s world. They passed, but still I feel
The dint of hoof, the print of booted heel,
Like prick of spurs--the shadows that they cast.
I do not vaunt their valors, or their crimes:
I tell my secrets only to some lover,
Some taster of spilled wine and scattered musk.
But I have not forgotten; and sometimes,
The things that I remember rise, and hover.
A sharper perfume in some April dusk.
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Comments about this poem (Nacogdoches Speaks by Karle Wilson Baker )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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- The Saddest Poem, Pablo Neruda
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- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
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