They laugh to see the spring fields edged
With noisy cock’s crow trees scarce fledged,
And flowers that grunt to feel their eyes
Made clear with sight’s finalities.
IV
THE LADY WITH THE SEWING MACHINE
ACROSS the fields as green as spinach,
Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich,
Stands a high house; if at all,
Spring comes like a Paisley shawl—
Patternings meticulous
And youthfully ridiculous.
In each room the yellow sun
Shakes like a canary, run
On run, roulade, and watery trill—
Yellow, meaningless, and shrill.
Face as white as any clock’s,
Cased in parsley-dark curled locks,
All day long you sit and sew,
Stitch life down for fear it grow,