Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/25

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Amy Lowell



XVII


Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its colored leaves—
But before they turn?

XVIII


Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?

XIX


Love is a game—yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.

XX


When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!

XXI


Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labor,
I hear morning crows.

XXII


A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see clearly?