The twilight turns from amethyst
to deep and deeper blue,
The lamp fills with pale green glow
The trees of the avenue.
The old piano plays an air,
Sedate and slow and gay;
She bends upon the yellow keys,
Her heads inclines this way.
Shy thoughts and grave wide eyes
and hands
That wander as they list---
The twilight turns to darker blue
with lights of amethyst.
Poetry these days seems often to mean: "Whatever I like!" The result has been a dilution of the deep expressive quality of some of the finest poems ever composed, one above from a still recognised master of the English language. To him, I pay homage each day, and to some few others who create deep expression that transcends and reaches the hearts and minds of many, when read aloud.
Consider: still, in Russia, 40,000 people will assemble to hear poetry read aloud. Here, that's unimaginable, isn't it? Why?


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