Page:Morley--Translations from the Chinese.djvu/71

61 T is queer to think that many people Have never raked leaves. On a brilliant Sunday morning in October I admired trees as ruddy as burnt orange, Trees as pale and clear as Sauterne. The Sauterne of the leaves, I said to myself, Raking placidly And enjoying the crisp rustle.

That is what I like about raking leaves— It is wine and opiate for the mind: The incessant skirmish of the wits is calmed, And as you rake and burn And dodge, with smarting eyes, The pungent, veering reek, You fall into a dull easy muse, And think to yourself, After all, what is writing books But raking leaves?

And at such times I plant the seeds of poems. It takes poems a long while to grow—