This is the place, and, facing half to west,
Your two hands cupped above the eyes, somehow
Like two strange flowers hung upon the brow
In just the fragile way I might have guessed-
This is the round sky, utterly at rest.
There are three colors and a small bird now,
And thick plum-brightness ribbanding the bough,
And here a yellow flower for your breast. ..
One scarcely feels this wind or the slow way
It pushes past the ears, bitter with grass
And smell of hot flowers cooling on the stem.
One only wonders if, some quietest day,
New hands shall break these boughs, and strange feet pass,
Pitying the sleepers, as we pity them.
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