...Roethke. alkjsdhlakdaf. I was telling Steven today that in the way you read t.s.Eliot when you're depressed and feeling hollow, you read Roethke when you're in love. I'm not by any means familiar with enough poets. My (extremely) limited viewpoint is biased regardless. Because I just. I've never, in my entire life, heard a man describe a woman like that. Like something reverent and lovely and wondrous. And no matter how many adjectives you hear, it just doesn't cut it. It's like you can feel his emotions through the pages, even with no analysis. You'd just know, and you'd just revel in it all.
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)