it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry
of the year was
awake tingling
near
the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself
sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax
unsignificantly
off the coast
there was
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning
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I’ve fond anticipation of a day
For I must read a lady poesyThe while we glide by many a leafy bay,Hid deep in rushes, where at random playThe glossy black winged May-flies, or whence fleeHush-throated nestlings in alarm,Whom we have idly frighted with our boat’s long sway.For, lest o’ersaddened by such woes as springTo rural peace from our meek onward trend,What…
Light hearted William twirled
and, half dressed, lookedfrom the bedroom windowupon the spring weather.Heigh-ya! sighed he gailyleaning out to seeup and down the streetwhere a heavy sunlightlay beyond some blue shadows.Into the room he drewhis head again and laughedto himself quietlytwirling his green moustaches.
By the road to the contagious hospital
mottled clouds driven from thenortheast — a cold wind. Beyond, thewaste of broad, muddy fieldsbrown with dried weeds, standing and fallenpatches of standing waterthe scattering of tall treesAll along the road the reddishpurplish, forked, upstanding, twiggystuff of bushes and small treeswith dead, brown leaves under themleafless vines —Lifeless in appearance, sluggishdazed spring approaches —They enter…
Soft as the bed in the earth
So soft, so smooth and so cool,Spring closes me inWith her arms and her hands.Rich as the smellOf new earth on a stone,That has lain, breathingThe damp through its pores—Spring closes me inWith her blossomy hair;Brings dark to my eyes.
All those treasures that lie in the little bolted box whose tiny space is
All those treasures—I hold them in my hand—are straining continuallyAgainst the sides and the lid and the two ends of the little box in which I guard them;Crying that there is no sun come among them this great while and that they weary of shining;Calling me to fold back the lid of the little box…
The little sparrows
about the pavementquarrelingwith sharp voicesover those thingsthat interest them.But we who are wisershut ourselves inon either handand no one knowswhether we think goodor evil.Meanwhile,the old man who goes aboutgathering dog-limewalks in the gutterwithout looking upand his treadis more majestic thanthat of the Episcopal ministerapproaching the pulpitof a Sunday.These thingsastonish me beyond words.