For M.W. by Jean Toomer

There is no transcience of twilight in
The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face,
No flicker of a slender flame in space,
In crucibles, fragility crystalline.
There is no fragrance of the jessamine
About you, no pathos of some old place
At dusk, that crumbles like moth-eaten lace
Beneath the touch. Nor has there ever been.

Your love is like the folk-song's flaming rise
In cane-lipped southern people, like their soul
Which burst its bondage in a bold travail;
Your voice is like them singing, soft and wise,
Your face, sweetly effulgent of the whole,
Inviolate of ways that would fail.

by Jean Toomer

Other poems by 'Jean Toomer'

November Cotton Flower

People

A Certain Man

Her Lips Are Copper Wire

Harvest Song

The Lost Dancer

Reapers

Song of the Son

Cotton Song

Tell Me

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