THREE CINQUAINS
NOVEMBER NIGHT
Listen ...
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.
TRIAD
These be
Three silent things:
The falling snow ... the hour
Before the dawn ... the mouth of one
Just dead.
THE WARNING
Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk ... as strange, as still ...
A white moth flew. Why am I grown
So cold?