THE FERNERY
Reading edition
The lights that travel on her spectacles Seldom, now, meet a mirror in her eyes. But turning, as you may chance to lift a shade Beside her and her fernery, is to follow The zigzags fast around dry lips composed To darkness through a wreath of sudden pain. —So, while fresh sunlight splinters humid green I have known myself a nephew to confusions That sometimes take up residence and reign In crowns less grey—O merciless tidy hair!