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200 pages, Hardcover
First published October 6, 2005
Edith Wharton is a well-known writer and classic poet. She is someone who many people read, admire, love, and recommend. I don’t know why I requested this collection for review. I think I was under the impression that I liked poetry from this century which is confusing because I hate most romantic poets. I gave this collection a shot, but I loathed it. There was not a lot to love for me. I think at first, I loved this collection, but the more I read, the less I enjoyed. I gave Edith Wharton’s poetry a shot and I think I’ll pass on the rest. However, I am interested in reading The House of Mirth. Classic poetry is just not for me. Correction. Romantic class poetry is not for me. 
A cold grey sea, a cold grey sky
And leafless swaying boughs.
A wind that wanders sadly by,
And moans about the house.
And in my lonely heart a cry
For days that went before;
For joys that fly, and hopes that die,
And the past that comes no more.- October, pg. 18
I
Leaguered in fire
The wild black promontories of the coast extend
Their savage silhouettes;
The sun in universal carnage sets,
And, halting higher,
The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats,
Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned,
That, balked, yet stands at bay.
Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day
In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline,
A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shine
Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray,
And in her hand swings high o’erhead,
Above the waster of war,
The silver torch-light of the evening star
Wherewith to search the faces of the dead.
II
Lagooned in gold,
Seem not those jetty promontories rather
The outposts of some ancient land forlorn,
Uncomforted of morn,
Where old oblivions gather,
The melancholy unconsoling fold
Of all things that go utterly to death
And mix no more, no more
With life’s perpetually awakening breath?
Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore,
Over such sailless seas,
To walk with hope’s slain importunities
In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not
All things be there forgot,
Save the sea’s golden barrier and the black
Close-crouching promontories?
Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories,
Shall I not wander there, a shadow’s shade,
A spectre self-destroyed,
So purged of all remembrance and sucked back
Into the primal void,
That should we on the shore phantasmal meet
I should not know the coming of your feet?- An Autumn Sunset, pg. 68-69
Beauty hath two great wings
That lift me to her height,
Though steep her secret dwelling clings
'Twixt earth and light
Thither my startled soul she brings
In a murmur and stir of plumes,
And blue air cloven,
And in aerial rooms
Windowed on starry springs
Shows me the singing looms
Whereon her worlds are woven;
Then, in her awful breast,
Those heights descending,
Bears me, a child at rest,
At the day's ending,
Till earth, familiar as a nest,
Again receives me,
And Beauty veiled in night,
Benignly bending,
Drops from the sinking west
One feather of our flight,
And on faint sandals leaves me.- Dieu D'Amour, pg. 91
Life, like a marble block, is given to all,
A blank, inchoate mass of years and days,
Whence one with ardent chisel swift essays
Some shape of strength or symmetry to call;
One shatters it in bits to mend a wall;
One in a craftier hand the chisel lays,
And one, to wake the mirth in Lesbia’s gaze,
Carves it apace in toys fantastical.
But least is he who, with enchanted eyes
Filled with high visions of fair shapes to be,
Muses which god he shall immortalize
In the proud Parian’s perpetuity,
Till twilight warns him from the punctual skies
That the night cometh wherein none shall see.- Life, pg. 119