Trillium undulatumPainted lady, late riser,you rush out of the ground,get pollinated on the flysometimes beforeyour petals fully open,so that within one dayafter emergence they arealready turning translucent,your pink makeup fadingas the light-floodedforest dims to leaf-out.But that’s your trueelement, isn’t it?The shade.Even unpollinated
Let him continuein the ground, hewho is now dead,where all things hurry—a strange companywho seem to speak.Let the pursers and clerksmake up their accounts,the parson rest, andthe great night cometo sit with night.
On a maple’s pale bark,a zigzag ladder—old tooth-marksfrom a wandering snail?Green islands of mossbeckon across a fluttering seaof brown leaves.This cloud-filtered sunlightis perfect, says the photographeras her cheeks slowly turn red.
When I behold a forest spreadWith silken trees upon thy head;And when I see that other dressOf flowers set in comeliness;When I behold another graceIn the ascent of curious lace,Which, like a pinnacle, doth shewThe top, and the top-gallant too;Then, when I see thy tresses boundInto an oval, square, or round,And knit in knots far more than I.Can tell by tongue, or True-love tie;Next, when those lawny films I seePlay with a wild civility;And all those airy silks to flow,
Sweet serene sky-like flower,Haste to adorn her bower;From thy long cloudy bedShoot forth thy damask head!New-startled blush of Flora,The grief of pale Aurora,Who will contest no more,Haste, haste to strew her floor!Vermilion ball that's givenFrom lip to lip in heaven,Love's couch's coverlet,Haste, haste to make her bed!Dear offspring of pleased VenusAnd jolly plump Silenus,Haste, haste to deck the hairOf the only sweetly fair!