Today burn tree-prunings. Dead branches are cut and piled And the soft-stemmed grass broken and raked to kindle them. Rain beats a little light dust up from the sand. This is the time when birds come to pick the grass-seed Exposed, white on the ground sweetened with dead roots Grown since you marked the scoured furrows with your name. You made prints of your breasts where when you were lately grown, But they are beaten out; and all the dog-fennel Is burned, that stung your eyes with its white bitter dust. O dead sister, your pride keeps seasons like the birds. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TREES by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ALONE (2) by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE MUIOPOTMOS, OR THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE by EDMUND SPENSER EPITAPH by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE IN NOVEMBER by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH |