Best 32 quotes of Adelaide Crapsey on MyQuotes

I knowNot these my handsAnd yet I think there wasA woman like me once had handsLike these.

Listen ... With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break free from the trees And fall.

My object to venture the suggestion that an important application of phonetics to metrical problems lies in the study of phonetic word-structure.

The oldOld winds that blewWhen chaos was, what doThey tell the clattered trees that IShould weep?

These be Three silent things: The Falling snow. . . the hour Before the dawn. . . the mouth of one Just dead.

And the centurion who stood by said: Truly this was a son of God. Not long ago but everywhere I go There is a hill and a black windy sky. Portent of hill, sky, day's eclipse I know; Hill, sky, the shuddering darkness, these am I. The dying at His right hand, at His left, I am - the thief redeemed and the lost thief; I am the careless folk; I those bereft, The Well-Belov'd, the women bowed in grief. The gathering Presence that in terror cried, In earth's shock in the Temple's veil rent through, I; and a watcher, ignorant, curious-eyed, I the centurion who heard and knew

As it Were tissue of silver I'll wear, O Fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.

But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. The strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!

Dost thou Not feel them slip, How cold! how cold! the moon's Thin wavering finger-tips, along Thy throat?

Ere the horne'd owl hoot Once and twice and thrice there shall Go among the blind brown worms News of thy great burial; When the pomp is passed away, 'Here's a King,' the worms shall say.

If illness' end be health regained then I Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I die.

If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it were, Too heavy!

I make my shroud, but no one knows -- So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows. In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair.

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sighing Of Greece.

Is it as plainly in our living shown, By which way the wind hath blown?

Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees And fall.

Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and scent The snow!

No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!

Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart's Shed blood.

Oh Lady, let the sad tears fall To speak thy pain, Gently as through the silver dusk The silver rain. Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grief In such soft sigh As hath the wind in gardens where Pale roses die.

Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.

Peter stands by the gate, And Michael by the throne. 'Peter, I would pass the gate And come before the throne.' 'Whose spirit prayed never at the gate In life nor at the throne, In death he may not pass the gate To come before the throne:' Peter said from the gate; Said Michael from the throne.

Reap, reap the grain and gather The sweet grapes from the vine; Our Lord's mother is weeping, She hath nor bread nor wine; She is weeping. The Queen of Heaven, She hath nor bread nor wine.

Scarlet the poppies Blue the corn-flowers, Golden the wheat. Gold for the Eternal: Blue for Our Lady: Red for the five Wounds of her Son.

Sea-foam And coral! Oh, I'll Climb the great pasture rocks And dream me mermaid in the sun's Gold flood.

Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.

Thou hast Drawn laughter from A well of secret tears And thence so elvish it rings, -mocking And sweet.

Three grey women walk with me Fate and Grief and Memory. My fate brought grief; my grief must be With me through Eternity, Such thy power, memory. Three grey women walk with me.

When I was girl by Nilus stream I watched the deserts stars arise; My lover, he who dreamed the Sphinx, Learned all his dreaming from eyes. I bore in Greece a burning name, And I have been in Italy Madonna to a painter-lad, And mistress to a Medici. And have you heard (and I have heard) Of puzzled men with decorous mien, Who judged - the wench knew far too much - And burnt her on the Salem green?

Why do You thus devise Evil against her?' 'For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.

With night's Dim veil and blue I will cover my eyes, I will bind close my eyes that are So weary.

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.