[ 11 ]

I expect you from the North. The path winds in

Between the honeysuckle and the pines, among

Poison ivy and small flowerless shrubs,

Across the red-brown needle-bed. I sit

Or smoking pace. A moment since, at six,

Mist wrapped the knoll, but now birds like a gong

Beat, greet the white-gold level shine. Wide-flung

On a thousand greens the late slight rain is gleaming.

A rabbit jumps a shrub. O my quick darling,

Lie torpid so? Cars from the highway whine,

Dawn’s trunks against the sun are black. I shiver.

Your hair this fresh wind would—but I am starting.

To what end does this easy and crystal light

Dream on the flat leaves, emerald, and shimmer? . .