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A middle-northern March, now as always—

gusts from the south broken against cold winds—

but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,

it moves—not into April—into a second March,

the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping

upon the mould: this is the shadow projects the tree

upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.

So we will put on our pink felt hat—new last year!

—newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back

the seasons—and let us walk to the orchid-house,

see the flowers will take the prize to-morrow

at the Palace.

Stop here, these are our oleanders.

When they are in bloom—

You would waste words

It is clearer to me than if the pink

were on the branch. It would be a searching in

a coloured cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,

shows the very reason for their being.

And these the orange-trees, in blossom—no need

to tell with this weight of perfume in the air.

If it were not so dark in this shed one could better

see the white.

It is that very perfume

has drawn the darkness down among the leaves.

Do I speak clearly enough?

It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone

loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings—

not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion

of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves

its own caretaker.