I may not speak to her of all she's seen;
She may not speak to me of all she knows
Because her words mean nothing:
She chooses them
As one to whom our language is quite strange,
As children make queer words with lettered blocks
Before they know the way. . . .
My little sister stood beside the pool—
I could not plunge in with her, though I tried.
APPARITIONS
I
A thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
Hiding its wounds:
These are the wounds of sorrow—
It was my hand that made them;
And this gray shadow that resembles you
Is my own heart, weeping
You sleep quietly beneath the shade
Of willows in the south.
II
When the cold dawn stood above the house-tops,
Too late I remembered the cry
In the night of a wild bird flying
Through the rain-filled sky.
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