Out of the dark change
all day long
rain falls and falls
as if it would never end.
Still the snow keeps
its hold on the ground.
But water, water
from a thousand runnels!
It collects swiftly,
dappled with black
cuts a way for itself
through green ice in the gutters.
Drop after drop it falls
from the withered grass-stems
of the overhanging embankment.
Similar Posts
You say love is this, love is that:
the wind and the rain comb,tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip–branches drifting apart. Hagh!Love has not even visited this country.
According to Brueghel
it was springa farmer was ploughinghis fieldthe whole pageantryof the year wasawake tinglingnearthe edge of the seaconcernedwith itselfsweating in the sunthat meltedthe wings’ waxunsignificantlyoff the coastthere wasa splash quite unnoticedthis wasIcarus drowning
You sullen pig of a man
with your stinking ash-cart!Brother!-if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!It is dreams that have destroyed us.There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.Well-all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand-dreams are not a bad thing.
Constantly near you, I never in my entire
or half so well. We talked. you were neverso lucid, so disengaged from all exigenciesof place and time. We talked of ourselves,intimately, a thing never heard between us.How long have we waited? almost a hundred years.You said, Unless there is some spark, somespirit we keep within ourselves, a life, acontinuing life’s impossible-and it is allwe…
School is over. It is too hot
in light frocks they walk the streetsto while the time away.They have grown tall. They holdpink flames in their right hands.In white from head to foot,with sidelong, idle look–in yellow, floating stuff,black sash and stockings–touching their avid mouthswith pink sugar on a stick–like a carnation each holds in her hand–they mount the lonely street.
The whole process is a lie,
crowned by excess,It break forcefully,one way or another,from its confinement—or find a deeper well.Antony and Cleopatrawere right;they have shownthe way. I love youor I do not liveat all.Daffodil timeis past. This issummer, summer!the heart says,and not even the full of it.No doubtsare permitted—though they will comeand maybefore our timeoverwhelm us.We are only mortalbut being mortalcan…