Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/44

 I tell you we are the shape of a word in the air Uttered from silence behind us into silence Far, far beyond, and now between two strokes Of the word’s passing have become the word— That jars on through the night; and the stirred air Deadens, is still—

They lived that summer in a furnished flat On the south side of Congress Street and no Sun, but you could look into the branches Of all those chestnut-trees, and then they had A window-box, but the geraniums Died leaving a little earth and the wind Or somehow one June morning there was grass Sprouting—