Fall 1958 • Vol. XX No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1958 |

A Girl Walking into a Shadow

The mere trees cast no coolness where you go. Your small feet press no darkness into the grass. I know your weight of days, and mourn I know. All hues beneath the ground are bare grayness. When I was young, I might have touched your hair, Gestured my warning, how that fire will gray, Slight arms and delicate hands grow heavier, And small feet hasten, though the dark delay. Now old, I love you slowly, out of sound. Lightly alive, you cannot mourn for trees. You cannot feel how grass, above the ground, Gathers to mold your shadow's quick caress. Heavy for you, I hear the futile speech Of air in trees, of shadows in your hair. Quick to go by me now, beyond my reach, You pause. With darkness deepening everywhere, Something of light falls pitiful and kind, Before you share that subtle dark embrace Of evening, when some lover's eyes go blind With dreams against the hollows of your face.

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The mere trees cast no coolness where you go. Your small feet press no darkness into the grass. I know your weight of days, and mourn I know. All hues […]

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