Jeannette Augustus Marks,
Willow Pollen
“ Among massed trees sleep-hung with jewelled fruit; Antiquity against a shadowed sky, And everywhere old gardens where men loved So long ago, and the moon rose on vows And thirsty human lips aching to meet; And the moon set on darkling ivory-petalled rows Of lilies and on hands dim with loneliness:— Below, Amalfi’s campanile plays Its even-song, full chant and antiphon, A wish, a hope, a call from star to star. ”
Jeannette Augustus Marks,
Willow Pollen
“ Green flame of flight to the very tip!” I looked into the bowl, wondering: And night and dawn mingled And sleep stirred And the day turned in its dream, And flame, flickering, swept the bowl’s lip. Then I took the bowl in my two hands, Thanking God. But now in my bowl dawn breaks no more, Over the bowl’s lip I hear the iron shudder of dry leaves Beaten by frozen wind. There is no rain to soften sleep, No day like topaz in the sun, I see the larch crumble to ash,— My arms grow numb back to the very heart Holding this bowl God gave to me! ”
Jeannette Augustus Marks,
Willow Pollen
“ And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting waters Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him. For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks. Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need, Spreading it in marigolds and frost,— It is September then,—October, too. The bee, the big bee, the burning bee Begins and ends in gold. In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom, He climbs the sky with fagots on his back To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils ”
