Empty the garden where I played your singing, Empty the garden now become a graveyard, Deep in the earth strings rust and ivory ages, Into the soul of music worms have eaten. Over the keyboard I have planted iris, Into the body I have sunk a pool. Here are all echoes frozen into dancers, Ecstatic marble elegantly cool. Circling the garden I have reared a boundary The Yellow Book and sunflowers, Kansas and yellow journals, Honey, butter and yellow-jackets, Canary cottage, cages and circus-wagons: Whole worlds of flaming yellow fire -- And oblivion, yellow with the dust of ages! . . . We drove out miles this afternoon To see the yellow in the woods: Mountains-sides of aspen. |