Pastorale

No more violets, And the year Broken into smoky panels. What woods remember now Her calls, her enthusiasms.

That ritual of sap and leaves The sun drew out, Ends in this latter muffled Bronze and brass. The wind Takes rein.

If, dusty, I bear An image beyond this Already fallen harvest, I can only query, “Fool-- Have you remembered too long;

Or was there too little said For ease or resolution-- Summer scarcely begun And violets, A few picked, the rest dead?”