Poems

We can not weather all this gold Nor stand under the gold from elm-trees And the re-coated sallows. We can not hold our heads erect Under this golden dust. We can not stand Where enclosures for the fruit Drop hot—radiant—slight petals From each branch. We can not see: The dog-wood breaks—white— The pear-tree has caught— The apple is a red blaze— The peach has already withered its own leaves— The wild plum-tree is alight.

The night has cut each from each And curled the petals back from the stalk And under it in crisp rows: Under at an unfaltering pace, Under till the rinds break, Back till each bent leaf Is parted from its stalk: Under at a grave pace, Under till the leaves are bent Back till they drop upon the earth, Back till they are all broken. O night, You take the petals of the roses in your hand, But leave the stark core of the rose To perish on the branch.