Now this paste of ash and water; water slipping over ice, greenish brown water, white ice, November ice, thin as glass, shot with air. The kinglet, soundless, against the yellow grapeleaves of the arbor, smallest of birds; shrill day, the blowing, oily Atlantic off Strong's Neck; the salt smell drifts, blown through the newish Cape Cod homes. On such days children fall down wells, or drown falling through thin first ice, or fall reaching after the last apple the picker neglected, the tree leafless, the apple spoiled anyway by frost; toad freezes, snake's taken his hole; the cat makes much shorter trips; dog's bark is louder. The green has floated from earth, moved south, or drifted upward at night, invisible to us. Man walks, throwing off alone thin heat; this cold's life, death's steamy mark and target. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND by ROBERT BRIDGES (1858-1941) VIRTUE [OR, VERTUE] by GEORGE HERBERT THESEUS by THOMAS STURGE MOORE POLWART ON THE GREEN by ALLAN RAMSAY GOOD FRIDAY (1) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |