Peter Viereck

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SadPeter Viereck

Fountain Rhythms

Forgetfully My fountains play Glass symphonies To arm my peace. Such tides efface Such tunes replace An older peace, My other days, Of you the day. Rebelliously Resounding out Of mountains came Marvel: a shout: "I am the same." Who is that singing Through my song?
SadPeter Viereck

Grove in Drought

This was the Easter when it rained so little That all the olive groves were grimed with dust Along the road. The sapless twigs were brittle, Ceding, like wires yielding glint to rust, Their hoard of stored up sun and all their greenness— Except one crest, whose brightness drained its root. Here clay had pushed beyond all clay's uncleanness And then, exhausted, withered without fruit.
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