Poems in Unrhymed Cadence - S. Flint

I london, my beautiful, It is not the sunset Nor the pale green sky Shimmering through the curtain Of the silver birch, Nor the quietness; It is not the hopping Of the little birds Upon the lawn, Nor the darkness Stealing over all things That moves me. But as the moon creeps slowly Over the tree-tops Among the stars, I think of her And the glow her passing Sheds on men. London, my beautiful, I will climb Into the branches To the moonlit tree-tops, That my blood may be cooled By the wind. II Under the lily shadow And the gold And the blue and mauve That the whin and the lilac Pour down on the water, The fishes quiver. Over the green cold leaves And the rippled silver And the tarnished copper Of its neck and beak, Toward the deep black water Beneath the arches, The swan floats slowly. Into the dark of the arch the swan floats And the black depth of my sorrow Bears a white rose of flame. III—IN THE GARDEN The grass is beneath my head; And I gaze At the thronging stars In the aisles of night. They fall … they fall…. I am overwhelmed, And afraid. Each little leaf of the aspen Is caressed by the wind, And each is crying. And the perfume Of invisible roses Deepens the anguish. Let a strong mesh of roots Feed the crimson of roses Upon my heart; And then fold over the hollow Where all the pain was.