The Late Summer

Everything still, oh, absolutely still. Who would have thought Pomona was like this, So almost like Medusa? But she is. No breath whatever stirs This warm domain of hers.

Under the drooping willows, whose festoons Hang down like chains of green and heavy stones Two lovers stand, holding each other close. They neither move nor whisper; and their pose, The taller one unbending for the kiss, Is like the deaf, the rigid, like all those Most hopeless listeners Locked, shut, held fast, in nothing.

By the cove

The great log with the broken antler lies Heavy and huge and gray, An old, old ram, or mountain sheep, who came To drink, and failed, the water being steel.

Oh, goddess, goddess, need it be this way? Break, lift, the trance, the spell. Let the wind rise, Let branches, in the bright September, move, And garments flutter, as the singing girls Take home the harvest in the cool of love.