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...MARIPOSA by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY SIR LANCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE by ALFRED TENNYSON MOON AND VENUS by ABUL MUGHIRA WITH MY CIGAR by JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 1. AIR by JOHN ARMSTRONG TO CHILDREN: 1. FAIRY SONG by WILLIAM ROSE BENET O WORLD, BE NOBLER! by LAURENCE BINYON |