Benjamin Fraser

    Their spirits beat upon mine
    Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
    I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
    I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes
    Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes,
    And when they turned their heads;
    And when their garments clung to them,
    Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
    Their spirits watched my ecstasy
    With wide looks of starry unconcern.
    Their spirits looked upon my torture;
    They drank it as it were the water of life;
    With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes,
    The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt,
    Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
    And they cried to me for life, life, life.
    But in taking life for myself,
    In seizing and crushing their souls,
    As a child crushes grapes and drinks
    From its palms the purple juice,
    I came to this wingless void,
    Where neither red, nor gold, nor wine,
    Nor the rhythm of life are known.

Edgar Lee Masters

Edgar Lee Masters was an American poet, biographer, and dramatist. Born in Kansas and raised in Illinois, Masters is best known for his collection of poems entitled "Spoon River Anthology" (1915), which is a series of epitaphs of residents of the fictional small town of Spoon River. His works reflect the everyday lives and frustrations of middle America. Masters also practiced law and wrote biographies for historical figures such as Abraham Lincoln and Mark Twain.

Edgar Lee Masters

Portrait Of A Woman

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

John Horace Burleson

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Dorcas Gustine

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Terminus

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

English

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    She took my strength by minutes,
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Edgar Lee Masters

Caroline Branson

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Edgar Lee Masters

In The Garden At The Dawn Hour

I arise in the silence of the dawn hour.
And softly steal out to the garden
Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning.
And a wind moves out of the south-land,
Like a film of silver,
And thrills with a far borne message
The flowers of the garden.
Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them
To the south wind as he passes.
But the zinnias and calendulas,
In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly
As the south wind whispers the secret
Of the dawn hour!

I stand in the silence of the dawn hour
In the garden,
As the star of morning fades.
Flying from scythes of air
The hare-bells, purples and golden glow
On the sand-hill back of the orchard
Race before the feet of the wind.
But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim
Begin to flut...

Edgar Lee Masters

Portrait Of A Woman

    The pathos in your face is like a peace,
    It is like resignation or a grace
    Which smiles at the surcease
    Of hope. But there is in your face
    The shadow of pain, and there is a trace
    Of memory of pain.

    I look at you again and again,
    And hide my looks lest your quick eye perceives
    My search for your despair.
    I look at your pale hands, I look at your hair;
    And I watch you use your hands, I watch the flare
    Of thought in your eyes like light that interweaves
    A flutter of color running under leaves,
    Such anguished dreams in your eyes!
    And I listen to you speak
    Words like crystals breaking with a tinkle,
    Or a star's twinkle.
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    And leave the room, and ...

Edgar Lee Masters

Edmund Pollard

    I would I had thrust my hands of flesh
    Into the disk - flowers bee-infested,
    Into the mirror-like core of fire
    Of the light of life, the sun of delight.
    For what are anthers worth or petals
    Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows
    Of the heart of the flower, the central flame
    All is yours, young passer-by;
    Enter the banquet room with the thought;
    Don't sidle in as if you were doubtful
    Whether you're welcome - the feast is yours!
    Nor take but a little, refusing more
    With a bashful "Thank you", when you're hungry.
    Is your soul alive? Then let it feed!
    Leave no balconies where you can climb;
    Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest;
    Nor golden heads with pillows to share;
    Nor wine cups while the...

Edgar Lee Masters