Eclipse of the Moon by Mary Susanah Robbins - HTML preview

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Dark stuffed intensity, bedrooms

fetid with strength selfconfounded

whistle into spring. First I was alone,

barely conscious of birth and death

in this house till, strong, you entered.

Then there was playing, suites and viols,

beguiling pain with our voices,

making a world out of hell-birth,

a world we had not suspected

lay offshore. Through storms we sailed straight.


Now bird-cries. Did we instruct them,

with our fallen art, toward meaning?

From the bottom of the tempest-

ridden ocean silken sands spread

over springland to smooth triumph.

Here is water-clear narcissus

shadowed from us by green note points.

Each spring, each flower's carnival

hides from its neighbors' modesty.

Our birth is done, that escapade.


What would they have us do? We have

accomplished spring from heated winter.

What more does the rainbow ask? You

and I, like old pine trees, drop our

needles in the sun, sewing songs.

No orchestra invites our results.

Shall we then, born to be borne on

winds and drama, in tongues of flame,

unfold our muslin to the lines

at death-rooms, and pale strawberries?


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