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And plough-month peters out... its thermal power
Squandered in sighs and poems and hopeless thought,
Which corn and honey, wine, soap, wax oil ought
Upon my farmling to have chivvied into flower.
I burn, not silly with remorse, in sour
Flat heat of the dying month I stretch out taut:
Twenty-four dawns the topaz woman wrought
To smile to me is gone. These days devour
Memory: what were you elbowed on your side?
Supine, your knee flexed? do I hear your words
Faint as a nixe, in our grove, saying farewells?...
At five I get up sleepless to decide
What I will not today do; ride out: hear birds
Antiphonal at the dayspring, and nothing else.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 16 Oct 2008 2:59 AM | Viewed: 1486 times

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