Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/47

 Construe the soundless, slow Explosion of a summer cloud, decipher The sayings of the wind beneath the pantry door, Say when the moon will come, when the rain will follow.

Unless the rain comes soon the colored petals Sheathing the secret stigma of the rose Will fall, will wither, and the swollen womb Close, harden, upon a brittle stalk Seal up its summer, and the hollyhock, The broom, the furze, the poppy will become, Their petals fallen, all their petals fallen, Pease-cods—seedboxes—haws—

It should have rained when the moon Spilled out the old moon’s shadow.