Night calls to the sandhills and gathers them under her. She pushes away cities because their sharp lights hurt her soft breast. Even candles make a sore place when they stick in the night.
Lola RidgeAs for the common men apart, Who sweat to keep their common breath, And have no hour for books or art-- What dreams have these to hide from death!
Lola RidgeOut of the night you burn, Manhattan, In a vesture of gold-- Spun of innumerable arcs, Flaring and multiplying-- Gold at the uttermost circles fading Into the tenderest hint of jade, Or fusing in tremulous twilight blues, Robing the far-flung offices, Scintillant-storied, forking flame, Or soaring to luminous amethyst Over the steeples aureoled.
Lola Ridge