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Amy Lowell - The Blue ScarfAmy Lowell - The Blue Scarf
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Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,   it lies there, Warm from a woman`s soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing. Where is she, the woman who wore it?  The scent of her lingers and drugs me! A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down   on my face, And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim   in cool-tinted heavens. Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. Rose-leaves blow and patter against it.  Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor.  A big-bellied Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, Sunk in the black and white marble.  The west wind has lifted a scarf On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath   her slight stirring. Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to   a handful of cinders, And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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