“The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong.” — Elinor Wylie Copy Share Image
The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share Image
“I was, being human, born alone; I am, being woman, hard beset; I live by squeezing from a stone The little nourishment I get.” — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
“The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong.” — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
“Pretty Words" Poets make pets of pretty, docile words: I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish Which circle slowly with a silken swish, And… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
“I love bright words, words up and singing early; Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing; Warm lazy words, white cattle under… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
The bird Imagination, That flies so far, that dies so soon; Her wings are colored like the sun, Her breast is colored like the… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak, We shall live well--we shall live very well. — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
I shall lie folded like a saint, Lapped in a scented linen sheet, On a bedstead striped with bright-blue paint, Narrow and cold and… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There's something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
I am better able to imagine hell than heaven; it is my inheritance, I suppose. — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
If you would keep your soul From spotted sight or sound, Live like the velvet mole; Go burrow underground. — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
“The morning after / my death” The morning after my death we will sit in cafés but I will not be there I will… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
An old earthen pipe like myself is dry and thirsty and so a most voracious drinker of life at its source; I'm no more… — Elinor Wylie Copy Share
