whirled with a parched cry

into the woods:

Can you come,

can you come,

can you follow the hound trail,

can you trample the hot froth?

Spring up—sway forward—

follow the quickest one,

aye, though you leave the trail

and drop exhausted at our feet.

[24]

[24]

GARDEN

I

You are clear

O rose, cut in rock,

hard as the descent of hail.

I could scrape the colour

from the petals

like spilt dye from a rock.

 Prev. P 35/64 next