White phlox and white hydrangeas.
High, thin clouds,
A low, warm sun.
So it is this afternoon.
But the phlox will be a drift of petals.
And the hydrangeas stained and fallen
Before you come again.
I cannot look at the flowers,
Nor the lifting leaves of the trees.
Without you, there is no garden,
No bright colours.
No shining leaves.
There is only space,
Stretching endlessly forward —
And I walk, bent, unseeing.
Waiting to catch the first faint scuffle
Why do you not sleep. Beloved ?
It is so cold that the stars stand out of the sky
Like golden nails not driven home.
The fire crackles pleasantly.
And I sit here listening
For your regular breathing from the room above.
What keeps you awake, Beloved ?
Is it the same nightmare that keeps me strained with listening
So that I cannot read ?
In the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying ;
And when I came into my garden.
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch.
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
As I crossed over the bridge of Ariwarano Narikira,
I saw that the waters were purple
With the floating leaves of maples.
Is it a dragonfly or a maple leaf
That settles softly down upon the water ?
All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall.
But each leaf is fringed with silver.
Oblong, its jutted ends rounding into circles.
The old sunken basin lies with its flat, marble lip
An inch below the terrace tiles.
Over the stagnant water
Slide reflections :
The blue-green of coned yews ;
The purple and red of trailing fuchsias
Dripping out of marble urns ;
Bright squares of sky
Ribbed by the wake of a swimming beetle.
Through the blue-bronze water
Wavers the pale uncertainty of a shadow.
An arm flashes through the reflections,
A breast is outlined with leaves.
Outstretched in the quiet water
The statue of a Goddess slumbers.
The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house
Are rusty and broken.
Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees,
The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes
Sweep against the stars.
And I sit under a lamp
Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart.
Even the cat will not stay with me,
But prefers the rain
Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.
As I wandered through the eight hundred and eight streets of the city,
I saw nothing so beautiful
As the Women of the Green Houses,
With their girdles of spun gold.
And their long-sleeved dresses.
Coloured like the graining of wood.
As they walk.
The hems of their outer garments flutter open,
And the blood-red linings glow like sharp-toothed maple leaves
In Autumn.
Michael walks in autumn leaves
Rustling leaves and fading grasses,
And his little music-box
Tinkles faintly as he passes.
It's a gay and jaunty tune
If the hands that play were clever:
Michael plays it like a dirge,
Moaning on and on forever.
While his happy eyes grow big,
Big and innocent and soulful.
Wistful, halting little notes
Rise, unutterably doleful,
Telling of all childish griefs —
Baffled babies sob forsaken,
Birds fly off and bubbles burst,
Kittens sleep and will not waken.
Over the limp and sallow grasses,
Deborah, will you walk with me?
You may gather gentians in purple masses
And honeypods from the locust tree.
Brown leaves cover the partridge berry.
Holding it safe for your eager hand.
Barberry bright and cornelian cherry
Offering scarlet jewels stand.
I shall dress you up as an elf-queen, twining
Bittersweet wreaths for your golden head ;
Your leaf-brown cloak with its orange lining
I shall hang with garlands yellow and red.
Let us leave this place while the sunlight lingers
Lest the elves should covet your beauty bright.
The gentians fall from your tired fingers
As I carry you home through the fading light.
Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty:
A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery
Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow,
Bending beneath a weight of early snow,
Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk,
And spread a heavy white chilly afghan
Over its crested leaves.
Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing,
Claiming the right to live another fortnight,
Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come,
Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched
Long chill fingers into the brown, streaming hair
Of fleeing October.
The film of snow shrouded the proud redness of the tree,
As premature grief grays the strong head
Of a virile, red-haired man.