Winter 1947 • Vol. IX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1947 |

To the South

The umber slant lands under the Apennines Clouded their sunward dust with pluffs and plumes, Rust of peaches, pale of almonds and plums, And lower yet a still green mist of vines; These passed the slow train sliding down from the pines And the winter rocks and the smoke-gray ravines. Over the tiles of noon I saw upstart The domes and pistil tower, as in a kiln: Not like those shut steel buds of sleep at Köln That close eternal winter on the heart Nor like the April-folded stone of Chartres Whose waiting is the unsummered spirit's hurt. I came as from the ignominy of dream Into the precincts of the sun's renown, To feel the cycle of the night and noon, To see on the shadowy river noonfire teem And on the terra-cotta hills the gleam Of fruit boughs whitening, a foam of time.

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Caracara

By Brewster Ghiselin

The umber slant lands under the Apennines Clouded their sunward dust with pluffs and plumes, Rust of peaches, pale of almonds and plums, And lower yet a still green mist […]

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