Harvest Festival

there is night in these woods I walk with nothing in my hands but a crop of conversations—in a rough dwelling admitting only the dark half they are quarenders ruby in rush-light which I turn remembering talk in the blue dusk—you spoke of strange white birds in the pines—of troubadours with a ravaged east still in their eyes—of silent passings before sunrise—and in heavy snow of the high grey wildness of the Argentine—this harvest I called the mare early and she will wait with no garland on her neck till the seventh day when my labours of the field will be placed before an altar of stone with a basin of wine and basin of water

dusk pooling
in a calla lily
the wood pigeon’s call