English poem
The Fernery
by Hart Crane (1899–1932)
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!