The stars are as soft as flowers, and as near;
The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun;
No seperate leaf or single blade is here -
All blend into one.
No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light
Rolls lazily and slips again to rest.
There is no edged thing in all this night,
Save in my breast.
First time I heard this: Watching Autumn in New York and watching Winona Ryder's hands sweep her glass bead curtains, swish swish this way and that. I couldn't find the poem anywhere, but the opening line stuck stuck stuck. I thought it was by Emily Dickson - because she was obsessed with Emily Dickonson in the movie. But I just found out that it's Dorothy Parker, and here's the complete version. So lovely. And at the last line, you feel whatever is stabbing her in one short sharp shock, all tinged with the blurry midnight blue she has painted. Lovely, lovely, lovely.