Winter 1965 • Vol. XXVII No. 1 Poetry |

Listening to Leda in the Cemetery

After the shortcut past the stones, By clover lawns and cherry trees, I watched a clipped priest of a swan Invest himself in water.  Saw The quick transparency: blue mist Running on the ivory neck. A breeze of rose with butterflies, The monarch, orange butterflies, Choired and seemed to glorify The bird. Then once again he dipped His head, arching the slick feathers Into the pool. But what about The motion in the thing?  Or which Moved toward whose shuddering?  What still Became of movement? When the neck Returned its head, recoiled, and curved Before my eyes, the butterflies Were gone, and gone the wind, and I Could see nothing but bill and one Cold bead—and listened, listened for The hush fixed in those wings on water.

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Fred’s Case

By Robert Huff

After the shortcut past the stones, By clover lawns and cherry trees, I watched a clipped priest of a swan Invest himself in water.  Saw The quick transparency: blue mist […]

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