Let us watch the moon

And hum a solitary tune,

Let us be lonely together


The following poem was part of a Fieldcrest Ad  in a magazine many  years ago.  It came with a beautiful photograph of a woman with a baby in a bed covered with a patchwork quilt. My husband clipped it and gave it to me the evening he proposed marriage.

before the next snowfall, I promise you that cottage across the wheat field by the river road.

                I’ll get the well working and the chimney fixed and chase the hornets out.

                Of course, mending the doorpost where old blind Bossie blundered in might take a while, but     then, we’ve got the time.

                Besides, it’ll be a long summer, I promise you, I have a nose for seasons .

                Just gathering flowers might keep you pretty busy til November.

                I’ll have the wood piled in by then, to keep you warm in the bedroom in the firelight with your    samplers, singing the old lullabies to your firstborn child.

(The following two poems, “Nothing” and “Sunday” are part of “Love Poems for the Very Married” by Lois Wyse that came out in the Ladies Home Journal, April 1967 issue.)


By Lois Wyse

I suppose it was something you said

That caused me to tighten

And pull away.

And when you asked,

“What is it?”

I, of course, said “Nothing.”

Whenever I say “Nothing”,

You may be certain there is something.

The something is a cold, hard lump of



By Lois Wyse



When we talk

I get the distinct feeling

You are not glad

You are you

I am me

And we are we.

I detect a detached chill.

It used to worry me

Until I realized

That only a man

Who can be very attached

can also be detached.

And though at times I still detect detachment

I can weather it

For I have come to learn that

You and I, my love

Do not live in a temperate zone.




I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea

And the silence of the city when it pauses,

And the silence of a man and a maid

And the silence of which music alone finds the words,

And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,

And the silence of the sick when their eyes roam about the room…

And I ask for the depth of what use is language?

A beast in the field moans a few times when death takes its young.


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