View of the Atlas Mountains
Clouds as light as olive wreaths,
lighter than mist and air and wind,
and the silver edge of their leaves
flow smoother still than gentlest wine.
Atlas sleeps, the mammoth sleeps,
and in the grove the morning stirs
the supple dark, where pounding feet
have dashed the waking earth with fire.
There those mystic trees do more
than grace the desert with a scene.
Their branches listen with the truth
which bears the truth my mind will see
when love emerges as their light
grows deep, as now, O Montparnasse,
the mirrors of your streets grow dim.
My footfalls meet them, and never pass.
This air, as silent and as clean
as a copperplate untouched. This air
A storm descending from a desert sun.
A scent of color in the steaming rays.
Grace
The guise of shadow overgrows.
Lest radiance end in mold,
let rock be outward form,
the inward, springwater.
Springwater: the whispering idea,
the heart's easy grace.
The Birch Tree
Out of our deep, unaging dream,
through memories of russet brown,
our birch tree's deathless feeling,
our brightest legend's brightest song.
Our tree was of the lightest hair
and gazing of the mildest green,
and she became a whiter shape,
and we became a brighter flame.
And evening as we kept the hours
among dim cries of evening birds,
out of the tree the twilit soul
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