Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/25



XVII Foolish so to grieve, Autumn has its colored leaves— But before they turn?

XVIII Afterwards I think: Poppies bloom when it thunders. Is this not enough?

XIX Love is a game—yes? I think it is a drowning: Black willows and stars.

XX When the aster fades The creeper flaunts in crimson. Always another!

XXI Turning from the page, Blind with a night of labor, I hear morning crows.

XXII A cloud of lilies, Or else you walk before me. Who could see clearly? 11