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
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.
A PORTRAIT IN GREYS
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