Poem by Ina Donna Coolbrith

Loneliness

THE waning moon was up; the
Were faint, and very few;
The vines about the window-sill
Were wet with falling dew;

A little, cloud before the wind
Was drifting down the west;
I heard the moaning of the sea
In its unquiet rest:

Until, I know not from what grief,
Or thought of other years,
The hand I leaned upon was cold,
And wet with falling tears.

1. Bret Harte (A stir of pines in the forest)
2. Meadowlarks
3. The Day of Our Lord
4. Siesta
5. The Captive of the White City

Katherine Mansfield Loneliness ("Now it is Loneliness who comes at night")

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