IV
The grass is beneath my head;
and I gaze
at the thronging stars
in the night.
They fall . . . they fall. . . .
I am overwhelmed,
and afraid.
Each leaf of the aspen
is caressed by the wind,
and each is crying.
And the perfume
of invisible roses
deepens the anguish.
Let a strong mesh of roots
feed the crimson of roses
upon my heart;
and then fold over the hollow
where all the pain was.
F. S. Flint