Yet how often I told him.... Ah, the scent of my box-border!
And a late clove-pink still unfrozen.
It’s what they call a “mild November” ...
I knew that, below there, by the way the roots kept pushing,
But I’d forgotten how tender it was on the earth ...
So quickly the dead forget!
And the living? I think, after all, they remember,
With everything about them so unchanged,
And no leaden loam on their eyes.
Yes, surely, I know he remembers;