The one who loves me is alone.

Alone she loves,

Without meaning or melody or tone.

I saw her one day in a forest by a stream.

Oh shadow. Oh blue dream.

From bough to bough in my poetry

I in the world became the world and then became free.

Take a look at these. I wrote them when no light shone.

When I was the only light. When I was alone.


Alone I love,

Alone I know,

Alone I came, and alone I go.

Alone was how you found me.

Tomorrow, darkly,

When you see me faintly,

When your lips with mine agree,

I will know at last the reason for my poetry.

Not a meaning or a melody or a tone

Will be in them until then. I wrote them for you alone.





  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    March 7, 2016 at 3:09 pm

    This is a beautiful poem. Out of all you have written, the one that glistens the most.

  2. thomasbrady said,

    March 7, 2016 at 4:00 pm

    I am happy with this one—selfishly happy.

    Mary, I am so grateful for your attention, because I often ask, “Is it me? Am I crazy? Have I a right to be selfishly, selfishly happy?”

  3. maryangeladouglas said,

    March 7, 2016 at 5:30 pm

    I think that is a thing which is difficult for many artists. You yourself are a kind of mirror reflecting something outwards but as a person you also require something to reflect back to you what you have reflected. A riddle. And quite often people will out of sheer peversity withold the reflecting back. I can say about this poem when I read it I felt the genuine quality of it and a beautiful shade of blue and a gravity that I have felt in reading Keats and the other Romantics which gives it a kind of immortal echo or a blue green rippling on the surface of forest pools. That’s the way I received the music of the poem anyhow, quite literally. The painting was the perfect complement to it. To be happy in creating something beautiful isn’t selfish. To have an ideal of love and to seek to incarnate it in words is not selfish and the proof of that is that it gives joy to others to read.

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