THE FIDDLER
In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.
Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.
DAWN WIND
Wind, just arisen—
(Off what cool mattress of marsh-moss
In tented boughs leaf-drawn before the stars,
Or niche of cliff under the eagles?)
You of living things,
So gay and tender and full of play—
Why do you blow on my thoughts—like cut flowers
Gathered and laid to dry on this paper, rolled out of dead wood?
I see you
Shaking that flower at me with soft invitation
And frisking away,
Deliciously rumpling the grass…
So you fluttered the curtains about my cradle,
Prattling of fields
Before I had had my milk…
Did I stir on my pillow, making to follow you, Fleet One?
I—swaddled, unwinged, like a bird in the egg.
Let be
My dreams that crackle under your breath…
You have the dust of the world to blow on…
Do not tag me and dance away, looking back…
I am too old to play with you,
Eternal Child.
NORTH WIND
I love you, malcontent
Male wind—
Shaking the pollen from a flower
Or hurling the sea backward from the grinning sand.