I Hate Myself for Loving You

I really didn’t want to be smitten by you, because I think you are heartless and cruel, and only beautiful in some pictures, to boot.  But here we are.  Lady Caroline Blackwood: I love you.

Girl in Bed.

Girl in Bed.

Thinking of giving a very talented seamstress the following poem, inspired by you, and asking for a dress made according to its specifications.

“Leaf-Lace Dress”

Leaf-lace, a simple intricate design––

if you were not inside it, nothing much,

bits of glinting silver on crinkled lace––

you fall perhaps metallic and as good,

whole spirit wrought from toys and nondescript,

though nothing less than the best woman in the world.

Cold the green shadows iron the seldom sun,

harvest has worn her swelling shirt to dirt.

Agony says we cannot live in one house ,

or under a common name.  This was the sentence––

I have lost everything.  I feel a strength,

I have walked five miles, and still desire to throw

my feet off, be asleep with you… asleep and young.

The whole thing is ugly though the sleeve is beautiful.

The whole thing is ugly though the sleeve is beautiful.

Circa 1900.  No biggie.

Circa 1900. No biggie.


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