A three-day-long rain from the east— an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter, patter. Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant. Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion. A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves, hurry from one place to another. Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!— An interminable talking, talking, talking . . .it has happened before. Backward, backward, backward.
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days and vast and grey, and— In the tall, dried grasses a goat stirs with nozzle searching the ground. —my head is in the air but who am I . . ? And amazed my heart leaps at the thought of love vast and grey yearning silently over me.
Sweep the house clean, hang fresh curtains in the windows put on a new dress and come with me! The elm is scattering its little loaves of sweet smells from a white sky! Who shall hear of us in the time to come? Let him say there was a burst of fragrance from black branches.
Snow: years of anger following hours that float idly down— the blizzard drifts its weight deeper and deeper for three days or sixty years, eh? Then the sun! a clutter of yellow and blue flakes— Hairy looking trees stand out in long alleys over a wild solitude. The man turns and there— his solitary track stretched out upon the world.
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow is clotted with sorrel and crabgrass, the branch is black under the heavy mass of the leaves— The sun is upon a slender green stem ribbed lengthwise. He lies on his back— it is a woman also— he regards his former majesty and round the yellow center, split and creviced and done into minute flowerheads, he sends out his twenty rays— a little and the wind is among them to grow cool there!
One turns the thing over in his hand and looks at it from the rear: brownedged, green and pointed scales armor his yellow.
But turn and turn, the crisp petals remain brief, translucent, greenfastened, barely touching at the edges: blades of limpid seashell.