The Taxi
By Amy Lowell

When I go away from you

The world beats dead 

Like a slackened drum.

I call out for you against the jutted stars

And shout into the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast,

One after the other,

Wedge you away from me,

And the lamps of the city prick my eyes

So that I can no longer see your face.

Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

When I go away from you
I know you turn and whisper
Softer than a mouse’s whisper
My ears are strong, only my heart is weak.
My secrets you tell like it won’t break a heart.
The dogs behind me,
The barks of your language,
The language of my secrets,
You make my emotions explode like a geyser,
Inside my body.
I am a window, that you can see straight through.
Then a single salty tear trickles down my rosy check,
Why should I tell you these things, 
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of your cruelty.

What can you tell of the flaring moon

Through the oak leaves?

Or of my uncertain window and the

bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing

in them

Of blossoming hawthorns,

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,

virgin of loveliness

Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart

against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

Of the great moon.