Weary is earth of the empty tumult of winter,
Weary of the new weight
That presses against her heart for large release,
Weary of futile freight.
These buds will blow away in the autumn twilight,
Borne on the wind's cold breath.
These flowers will add the shining of their petals
To the mould of death.
The vast gray tragedy of life lies bare;
No spring flowers cover it.
No network of blossoms hides it from the eyes,
No light lies over it.
A sadness, a spring sadness, touches the world—
The sorrow that blindly knows
The futility of all unfolding, and the fading
Of every flower that grows.
IN A CORRIDOR OF STATUES
(Chicago Art Institute)
They crowd about me, close and white and still—
These statutes. On their lips is vocal silence.
They frighten me with the depth of their unspoken wisdom,
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