Page:Al Que Quiere.djvu/64

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a north wind,—there below you
how easily the long yellow notes
of poplars flow upward in a descending
scale, each note secure in its own
posture—singularly woven.

All voices are blent willingly
against the heaving contra-bass
of the dark but you alone
warp yourself passionately to one side
in your eagerness.


Will it never be possible
to separate you from your greyness?
Must you be always sinking backward
into your grey-brown landscapes—and
always in the distance, always against
a grey sky?
Must I be always
moving counter to you? Is there no
where we can be at peace together
and the motion of our drawing apart
be altogether taken up?
I see myself
standing upon your shoulders touching