Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/31

 To thrust from the cold branches, to start under The impulse of intolerable loins— The faint sweet smell of the trees sickened her. She walked at the sea’s edge on the blank sand.

Certainly the salt stone that the sea divulges At the first quarter does not fructify In pod or tuber nor will the fruiterer cull Delicate plums from its no-branches—Oh, Listen to me for the word of the matter is in me— And if it heats in the sun it heats to itself Alone and to none that come after it and the rain Impregnates it not to the slightest—Oh, listen,