Winter 1961 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1961 |

Ritual

Time like a wall of water hangs overThe girl drifted to the grass in the spring night.The boy there lost beside perceives as hersThe thistle glance of stars, stroke of wind:All they can do is for her. He alsoBends toward her the loves of touch and word.He says—no matter what. She knows; knowsThat great wars are joined. Shields stand. SpearsFly into bloom on a branch overhead:Let no one die! But lights of empty airplanesRoll on the dark like gold, red, green fruit."How long will you love me?" It is song.He says at last, "As long as―"The constellations, those huge losses, swingCold and far, the wall of waterTopples, and these two through foam of darknessLook for each other's eyes.

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A Scene

By Edward Weismiller

Time like a wall of water hangs overThe girl drifted to the grass in the spring night.The boy there lost beside perceives as hersThe thistle glance of stars, stroke of […]

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