THE wooden chalets of the cloud Hang down their dull blunt ropes to shroud Red crystal bells upon each bough (Fruit-buds that whimper). No winds slough Our faces, furred with cold like red Furred buds of satyr springs, long dead! The cold wind creaking in my blood Seems part of it, as grain of wood; Among the coarse goat-locks of snow Mamzelle still drags me, to and fro; Her feet make marks like centaur hoofs In hairy snow; her cold reproofs Die, and her strange eyes look oblique As the slant crystal buds that creak. If she could think me distant, she In the snow's goat-locks certainly Would try to milk those teats, the buds, Of their warm sticky milk -- the cuds Of strange long-past fruit-hairy springs -- Beginnings of first earthy things! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TONE PICTURE (MALIPIERO: IMPRESSONI DAL VERO) by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER TO A FRIEND by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD A HYMN TO CHRIST, AT THE AUTHOR'S LAST GOING INTO GERMANY by JOHN DONNE PORTRAIT D'UNE FEMME by EZRA POUND ODES I, 5 by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 24 by PHILIP SIDNEY MY SOLITUDE by JAMES R. AGGELES |