Modern American Poetry - Unknown

Which I cast at your feet.

Gather it up from the dust

That its sparkle may amuse you.

All the afternoon there has been a chirping of birds,

And the sun lies warm and still on the western sides of swollen branches,

There is no wind;

Even the little twigs at the ends of the branches do not move,

And the needles of the pines are solid

Bands of inarticulated blackness