1.
The garden in the hills
shadowy still at dawn
shows no trace of footprints.
And yet, spring has arrived:
the snow is melting patchily.
2.
Wild blossoms on the river banks
sway yellow in the rising wind:
seetheir images bloom too,
deep in the watery clarities.
3.
Warm light floods the countryside.
Summer is all about
and the green takes on a different tone
a shade or two beyond
the green that was here before.
4.
A hasty rendez-vous
on the lonely mountain meadow
our pillows are of grass:
nor shall we ever speak one word
of this our dew-drenched meeting.
5.
How long will it endure?
My dear, I cannot tell.
I do not know your heart
only the intricate tangles of
this dark rich-flowing hair.
6.
No moon in the sky tonight.
Is this cold autumn the same
as autumns now go ...
Frederick Morgan was the editor of The Hudson Review
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 20 September 2001, on page 75
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