Moving over the hills, crossing the irrigation canals perfect and profuse in the mountains the streams of women and men walking under the high- tension wires over the brown hills
in the multiple world of the fly’s multiple eye the songs they go to hear on this occasion are no one’s own
At supper time an ondine’s narrow feet made dark tracks on the hearth. Like the heart of a yellow fruit was the fire’s heat, but they rubbed together quite blue with the cold. The sandy hem of her skirt dripped on the floor. She sat there with a silvered cedar knot for a low stool; and I sat opposite, my lips and eyelids hot
One granite ridge A tree, would be enough Or even a rock, a small creek, A bark shred in a pool. Hill beyond hill, folded and twisted Tough trees crammed In thin stone fractures A huge moon on it all, is too much.
He crawls to the edge of the foaming creek He backs up the slab ledge He puts a finger in the water He turns to a trapped pool Puts both hands in the water Puts one foot in the pool Drops pebbles in the pool He slaps the water surface with both hands
His Grace! impossible! what dead! Of old age too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall? And so inglorious, after all! Well, since he’s gone, no matter how, The last loud trump must wake him now: And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger, He’d wish to sleep a little longer.
The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count;
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