Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WET MONTH, by HENRY BATAILLE



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THE WET MONTH, by            
First Line: Here in the laundry, through the blurred windowpane
Last Line: And float for shelter into vases deep.


HERE in the laundry, through the blurred windowpane
I have seen the night of Autumn falling grey . . .
A wanderer passes the ditches full of rain . . .
Traveller, traveller from of old who goest away
Now when the shepherds from the hills descend,
Haste thee! The fires are quenched upon that way,
And the doors closed in the land which is thine end . . .
The road is empty and the rustle of grass
Comes from so far it frightens us . . . Haste thee;
The lights are out on the old carts that pass . . .
'Tis Autumn sitting in coldness dreamily
On the straw chair in the kitchen hid away . . .
Autumn that in the dead vines chants his lay . . .
This is the moment when unburied men,
White bodies washed between the waves in sleep,
Feel the first chill of shuddering again
And float for shelter into vases deep.





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