Pastorale
Hart Crane
1899 to 1932
Track 1
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The sun drew out,
No more violets,
And the year
What woods remember now
Bronze and brass. The wind
Ends in this latter muffled
I can only query, "Fool—
Or was there too little said
Already fallen harvest,
An image beyond this
And violets,
That ritual of sap and leaves
Her calls, her enthusiasms.
Have you remembered too long;
If, dusty, I bear
A few picked, the rest dead?
For ease or resolution—
Takes rein.
Summer scarcely begun
Broken into smoky panels.
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