style="font-size:15px;"> Phoebus!It is he that is making
the great gleam among the poplars!
It is his singing
outshines the noise
of leaves clashing in the wind.
WOMAN WALKING
An oblique cloud of purple smoke
across a milky silhouette
of house sides and tiny trees—
a little village—
that ends in a saw edge
of mist-covered trees
on a sheet of grey sky.
To the right, jutting in,
a dark crimson corner of roof.
To the left, half a tree:
—what a blessing it is
to see you in the street again,
powerful woman,
coming with swinging haunches,
breasts straight forward,
supple shoulders, full arms
and strong, soft hands (I've felt them)
carrying the heavy basket.
I might well see you oftener!
And for a different reason
than the fresh eggs
you bring us so regularly.
Yes, you, young as I,
with boney brows,
kind grey eyes and a kind mouth;
you walking out toward me
from that dead hillside!
I might well see you oftener.
GULLS
My townspeople, beyond in the great
world,
are many with whom it were far more
profitable for me to live than here with
you.
These whirr about me calling, calling!
and for my own part I answer them,
loud as I can,
but they, being free, pass!
I remain! Therefore, listen!
For you will not soon have another
singer.
First I say this: you have seen
the strange birds, have you not, that
sometimes
rest upon our river in winter?
Let them cause you to think well then
of the storms
that drive many to shelter. These things
do not happen without reason.
And the next thing I say is this:
I saw an eagle once circling against the
clouds
over one of our principal churches—
Easter, it was—a beautiful day!—:
three gulls came from above the river
and crossed slowly seaward!
Oh, I know you have your own hymns, I
have heard them—
and because I knew they invoked some
great protector
I could not be angry with you, no matter
how much they outraged true music—
You see, it is not necessary for us to leap
at each other,
and, as I told you, in the end
the gulls moved seaward very quietly.
APPEAL
You who are so mighty,
crimson salamander,
hear me once more.
I lay among the half burned sticks
at the edge of the fire.
The fiend was creeping in.
I felt the cold tips of fingers—
O crimson salamander!
Give me one little flame,
one!
that I may bind it
protectingly about the wrist
of him that flung me here,
here upon the very center!
This is my song.
IN HARBOR
Surely
