Sorrow

The night is a black poppy.

The moon weeps

Spilling a torrent of silver tears

Across the black petals.

The wind laughs.

The black face of the water

Glistens with rows of flashing teeth

Laughing back.

Always laughter.

Ho, the stars are little devils

And I am their master.

The Little Review, September 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 6) · 第 15 / 67 题