Untitled Poem, 10/1

The blue-violet twilight, with its suspended slivered moon,
Draws the sky and emerald trees below to one darkness.
Human stillness gives way to the hymn of the woods,
Sung in native orchestration.

The crickets’ soprano crescendos
Above The cicadas’ substantial contralto;
And the summer night air lilts and glides
Through the trees, keeping tempo
With the baritone rhythm
Of the creek-bed bullfrogs.

Dissonant footsteps displace the gravel
Path; the small stones guide us to where
The woods end.

Across the open clearing we are walking,
Your hand lingering just below my neck,
As the thick air precipitates
In fine, dewy drizzle,
And the orchestration of our own voices
Replaces the forest song fading behind us.

"next to of course god america i

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language and deafanddumb
they sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water


-- ee cummings