GREEN LEAVES
For Clara Ellen Swartz
I.
We slid out of the street-locked park,—
A rolling, curving stretch of wood
May-odorous, and proudly green,—
Into cleft streets, whose bricked walls stood
In stolid death, as our machine
Skidded and righted, like some dark
Low-flying creature, fleeing a shout.
We wound and swirled and bent about,
Yet still the oddly scattered trees
Watched us, in curious disdain. . . .
And then we found a park again,
And a triumphant horde of these
Green guardians of green mysteries.
We slid out of the street-locked park,—
A rolling, curving stretch of wood
May-odorous, and proudly green,—
Into cleft streets, whose bricked walls stood
In stolid death, as our machine
Skidded and righted, like some dark
Low-flying creature, fleeing a shout.
We wound and swirled and bent about,
Yet still the oddly scattered trees
Watched us, in curious disdain. . . .
And then we found a park again,
And a triumphant horde of these
Green guardians of green mysteries.
Out of the green—into the green—
And all the bricked-up blocks between
Blurred to a dulling monochrome:
Here was our first and our last home.
And all the bricked-up blocks between
Blurred to a dulling monochrome:
Here was our first and our last home.
II.
We saw trees watch us, as we sped
Through bricked streets dying or already dead.
We saw trees watch us, as we sped
Through bricked streets dying or already dead.
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