Lyric of the Larks

View PDF

            Sobbing boughs above me bend,  
            Throbbing red in August wind. 

Down within the bloom of gentle days 
in summer warming, 
I hear the crystal birds who shatter dew 
to sing your name in  
rain in  
shining meadow hush, and larks, who soar,  
alarming 
me by singing you, can kill with, love, your  
cruel blaming. 
If I die by larks, then you will too, for  
who will form in  
rhyme your perfect eyes, or  
who conserve their lucid framing? 

            Throbbing boughs in August wind,  
            Sobbing, red above me, bend. 

I heard the earth hush  
when you washed your hair  
like after warm rain 
and then you smiled  
            and there were singing birds  
and I captured one gently  
and gave him to you  
and like a little girl  
in ignorant delight  
you crushed him to your breast  
until he died.

            Sobbing boughs, in August wind,  
            Throbbing red, above me bend. 

Ah then may you  
who were warm summer rain  
melting snow from the wind-cooling rose,  
white in green-darkened glades here below,  
know we lay beneath this tree  
a million or more than a year ago,  
and oh, 

            Sobbing boughs above me bend,  
            Throbbing red in August wind, 

and something shudders through my veins  
calling 
            calling  
in the sound of the apples 
                                                falling