Beauty and Beauty's son and rosemary - Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly - born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company, braids a garland of festivity. Not always rosemary -
since the flight to Egypt, blooming indifferently. With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers - white originally - turned blue. The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary
to flower both as symbol and as pungency. Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when he was thirty-three, it feeds on dew and to the bee "hath a dumb language"; is in reality a kind of Christmas tree.
To a Steam Roller
- by Marianne Moore45
The illustration is nothing to you without the application. You lack half wit. You crush all the particles down into close conformity, and then walk back and forth on them.
Sparkling chips of rock are crushed down to the level of the parent block. Were not 'impersonal judment in aesthetic matters, a metaphysical impossibility,' you
might fairly achieve it. As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive of one's attending upon you, but to question the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.
Poems by Marianne Moore, Marianne Moore's poems collection. Marianne Moore is a classical and famous poet (November 15, 1887 - February 5, 1972 / Kirkwood, Missouri). Share all poems of Marianne Moore.