The hedgerow bloomed with flowers still, No withered petals lay beneath; But the wild roses in your wreath Were faded, and the leaves were brown.
Before Morning
While all the East was weaving red with gray, The flowers at the window turned toward dawn, Petal on petal, waiting for the day, Fresh flowers, withered flowers, flowers of dawn.
This morning’s flowers and flowers of yesterday Their fragrance drifts across the room at dawn, Fragrance of bloom and fragrance of decay, Fresh flowers, withered flowers, flowers of dawn.
Circe’s Palace
Around her fountain which flows With the voice of men in pain, Are flowers that no man knows. Their petals are fanged and red With hideous streak and stain. They sprang from the limbs of the dead.— We shall not come here again.
Panthers rise from their lairs In the forest which thickens below, Along the garden stairs The sluggish python lies; The peacock’s walk, stately and slow And they look at us with the eyes Of men whom we knew long ago.
On a Portrait
Among a crowd of tenuous dreams, unknown To us of restless brain and weary feet, Forever hurrying, up and down the street, She stands at evening in the room alone.