Poem by Elinor Wylie

Poor Earth

It is not heaven: bitter seed 
Leavens its entrails with despair 
It is a star where dragons breed: 
Devils have a footing there.

The sky has bent it out of shape; 
The sun has strapped it to his wheel; 
Its course is crooked to escape 
Traps and gins of stone and steel.

It balances on air, and spins 
Snared by strong transparent space; 
I forgive it all its sins; 
I kiss the scars upon its face.

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2. Silver Filigree
3. A Crowded Trolley-Car
4. Address to My Soul
5. Bronze Trumpets and Sea Water - On Turning Latin into English

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