Poetry Page

[mrssherlock]

Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.

Poetry can be part of life       rather than a thing apart. Share with us       Poems about the end          of the natural year.            Tell us       How you celebrate          a poet's life and poems. Autumn holidays -       Tell us about Poetry in          Fall parties and gift giving.

A few Poetry Links:

• Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn
• Fall Poetry
• Poems for Autumn

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

And Frost in a whimsical mood:  

The Cow in Apple Time
Robert Frost

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

[BarbStAubrey]

  a drunken cow - fun - Jackie have to insert the heading in your post.

[serenesheila]

Thanks for the welcomes.  I really relate to the fallen oak.  A few weeks ago, I had two, large trees removed from my yard.  One in front, and one in back.  A week later, we had the worst rain and wind storm. that I can remember.  Trees were blown down, all over the county.  I was thankful my trees were gone.

However, I really miss the one in my backyard!!!  I loved that tree.  It has needed to be removed for several years.  But, My living room window looked out on that tree.  I enjoyed watching the leaves turn every fall.  And the squirrels scamper up and down the tree, for food for the winter.  Watching the leaves drop, knowing new ones would return in the spring.  Then, the birds building nests in the spring.  Sighhhhh  I feel as if an old friend has died.

Sheila

[Babi]

I know some people don't appreciate James Whitcome Riley, JACKIE, but I always loved that poem with it's down-home country twang. And thanks for the Robert Frost poem about apple-picking; that is one I hadn't seen before.

  Oh, SHEILA, I would, too. We lost a tree to a storm 2-3 years ago, and I still see the stub of it with regret. I could never be content living
without trees around me.

Here's one that echoes with me.

OCTOBER TREES, by Siegfried Sassoon

 "How innocent were these Trees, that in
Mist-green May, blown by a prospering breeze,
Stood garlanded and gay;
Who now in sundown glow
Of serious color clad confront me with their show
As though resigned and sad,
Trees, who unwhispering stand umber, bronze, gold;
Pavilioning the land for one grown tired and old;
Elm, chestnut, aspen and pine, I am merged in you,
Who tell once more in tones of time,
Your foliaged farewell."

[BarbStAubrey]

Loosing a tree is devastating isn't it Babi - even the least of trees much less an Oak - I have two China Berries that need to come down. Regardless that most think of them as a nuisance tree I love that they attract butterflies to their purple spring blossoms and birds to the cluster of fall fruit. Also, they are the last of the China Berries that were all over the yard when the house was first built. And then the biggie  - with the summers consistently for days climbing over 100  loosing any natural shade is catastrophic -

Something about this poem reminds me of your Oaks that you had to remove Shelia.

Tell the Bees
by Sarah Lindsay

Tell the bees. They require news of the house;
they must know, lest they sicken
from the gap between their ignorance and our grief.
Speak in a whisper. Tie a black swatch
to a stick and attach the stick to their hive.
From the fortress of casseroles and desserts
built in the kitchen these past few weeks
as though hunger were the enemy, remove
a slice of cake and lay it where they can
slowly draw it in, making a mournful sound.

And tell the fly that has knocked on the window all day.
Tell the redbird that rammed the glass from outside
and stands too dazed to go. Tell the grass,
though it's already guessed, and the ground clenched in furrows;
tell the water you spill on the ground,
then all the water will know.
And the last shrunken pearl of snow in its hiding place.

Tell the blighted elms, and the young oaks we plant instead.
The water bug, while it scribbles
a hundred lines that dissolve behind it.
The lichen, while it etches deeper
its single rune. The boulders, letting their fissures widen,
the pebbles, which have no more to lose,
the hills—they will be slightly smaller, as always,

when the bees fly out tomorrow to look for sweetness
and find their way
because nothing else has changed.

[BarbStAubrey]

With Halloween upon us we must read...

The Hag
 Robert Herrick (1648)

    The Hag is astride,
    This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
    Through thick, and through thin,
    Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

    A Thorn or a Burr
    She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
    Through Brakes and through Bryars,
    O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

    No Beast, for his food,
    Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
    While mischiefs, by these,
    On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

    The storme will arise,
    And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
    The ghost from the Tomb
    Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

[mrssherlock]

Babi & Barb:  Trees have a very special place in my emotions.  The two poems you have gifted to me today  are very precious.  I can't thank you enough.

[JoanK]

SHEILA: I know how you feel. Trees are very special to me, to. A few months ago, the management cut down the lemon tree outside of my window. Since I rent the apartment, I had no say. Now, instead of looking out on green leaves and birds, I see other apartments. I cried for days.

Wonderful Annafair remembered that I told her how much I missed the Autumn leaves since moving to California, and sent me some. Here is Nat King Cole singing "Autumn Leaves.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IDUxk9sSXI

[Babi]

 I had heard, from a book, of course, the old beekeeper tradition of
informing the bees of a death in the house. As far as I could tell, it
was deemed a courtesy to the bees.

 The 'Hag' was fun. I've never before heard midnight described as the
'noone of night'. You've made my morning! 

Oh, JOAN, what a pity. Even tho' you 'had no say', I hope you at least
told the management what a difference it made to you and how much it distressed you. They might think more carefully before making such a
decision the next time. Meanwhile, perhaps you could at least shut out
the view of the other apartments with one of those transparent glass
paintings, featuring lovely leaves.

[serenesheila]

How wonderful to know that many of you, feel as I do about trees!  I had thought that probably no one else cried when a tree came down.  I live 15 miles NE of Sacramento, California.  Sacto is called "the city of trees".  They are everywhere, except in my yard.  I just received an offer from the local power company, offering a free tree.  I plan to accept.

Thank you, Babi, and Batb St., for the poems about trees.  I remember reading a poem, that said:  "I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree".  I cannot remember the rest of the poem, or the poet who wrote it.

Sheila

[Babi]

That is Joyce Kilmer's "Trees", Sheila.  You should have no trouble at
all finding it.

[BarbStAubrey]

TREES
by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

 THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
 
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
 
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
 
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
 
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
 
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

[BarbStAubrey]

Forever Honored by the Tree
by Emily Dickinson

Forever honored by the Tree
Whose Apple Winterworn
Enticed to Breakfast from the Sky
Two Gabriels Yestermorn.

They registered in Nature's Book
As Robins -- Sire and Son --
But Angels have that modest way
To screen them from Renown.

[BarbStAubrey]

Tree at my Window
by Robert Frost
  
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.  

[BarbStAubrey]

A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

––Mary Oliver

[BarbStAubrey]

Advice from a Tree
By Ilan Shamir

Dear Friend,

Stand Tall and Proud
Sink your roots deeply into the Earth
Reflect the light of a greater source
Think long term
Go out on a limb
Remember your place among all living beings
Embrace with joy the changing seasons
For each yields its own abundance
The Energy and Birth of Spring
The Growth and Contentment of Summer
The Wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall
The Rest and Quiet Renewal of Winter

Feel the wind and the sun
And delight in their presence
Look up at the moon that shines down upon you
And the mystery of the stars at night.
Seek nourishment from the good things in life
Simple pleasures
Earth, fresh air, light

Be content with your natural beauty
Drink plenty of water
Let your limbs sway and dance in the breezes
Be flexible
Remember your roots

Enjoy the view!

[mrssherlock]

Barb:  quite a treasure trove today.  So many ways to impart treeness.  However, something in me Loves the Frost.  Each line, each thought, is more precious than the last.  But this takes the prize: 

Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,

[mrssherlock]

Recently Sherman Alexie was on a local talk show.  Can't remember much but I'm determined to read his works.  He won the National Book Award and has two books out this year.  Face and War Dances and my library has them both.

[BarbStAubrey]

Thanks for the intro Jackie - a poet whose work I am not familiar - here is an example -

On the Amtrak from Boston to New York City 
 
  The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look,
look at all the history, that house
on the hill there is over two hundred years old, '
as she points out the window past me

into what she has been taught. I have learned
little more about American history during my few days
back East than what I expected and far less
of what we should all know of the tribal stories

whose architecture is 15,000 years older
than the corners of the house that sits
museumed on the hill. 'Walden Pond, '
the woman on the train asks, 'Did you see Walden Pond? '

and I don't have a cruel enough heart to break
her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds
on my little reservation out West
and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane,

the city I pretended to call my home. 'Listen, '
I could have told her. 'I don't give a shit
about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories
around that pond before Walden's grandparents were born

and before his grandparents' grandparents were born.
I'm tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too,
because that's redundant. If Don Henley's brothers and sisters
and mothers and father hadn't come here in the first place

then nothing would need to be saved.'
But I didn't say a word to the woman about Walden
Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted
that I thought to bring her an orange juice

back from the food car. I respect elders
of every color. All I really did was eat
my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi
and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out

another little piece of her country's history
while I, as all Indians have done
since this war began, made plans
for what I would do and say the next time

somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.

Sherman Alexie
 
 

[mrssherlock]

Barb:  Frisson!  I can't wait until I get my call from the library to pick up his books.  Thank you

[JoanK]

The Story of Civilization has been active as a discussion group for eight years. We are now talking and reading about Italy during the Renaissance years.

Things happen in this period of history that change the way of the world forever. They are happening again in our discussion.

Come share with us this discussion of one of the most significant periods in the history of the world. You'll be glad you came and you will gain in understanding why we are where we are today.

On Sunday, we will have a celebration of eight years of discussion, and of making our way in only eight years from living in caves to the glories of the Renaissance.

For Seniorlearn members, go to http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=64.360

If you’re not a member, go to http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?action=help

[Babi]

What a delightful Dickinson poem, BARB. I hadn't seen that one before.
I love it!  And don't we all know about being 'taken and tossed' by that
inner weather of Frost's.

  Mr. Alexie sounds quite heated and bitter.  I guess I didn't realize there
were still Native Americans who feel the old wrongs so strongly.

[mrssherlock]

My family has Creek Indian in its genealogy which may or may not have contriubuted to the thread of alcoholism which continues in each generation.  My father was the son of a half-breed,, as it must have been termed in those days.  He had demons which pursued him as he fled into the false safety of the bottle.  I would not be surprised to learn that my father had belonged to the Klan; he was full of vitriol about other races, religions,  countries.  Bitter doesn't begin to describe my feelings about the treatment my ancestors must have endured.  So it is no stretch for me to identify in some small part with Alexie.  Alexie has the facility with language to help us see through his eyes.  I feel it is important to know more about the barriers we erect between ourselves and the other parts of the society we share. Sorry, Babi.  I didn't realize that I was so defensive about this subject. 

[bluebird24]

Barb thank you for the poem.  I love it:) Who is Ilan Shamir?

[bluebird24]

I like The Hag too

[BarbStAubrey]

 Babi there is a Pow Wow in Houston on November 21 - why not consider attending - not only will the wonderful native traditions be on display as well as the intense pride Native Americans have for their veterans where you may see at the Veterans  Pow Wow dance 3 generation  in the same family holding the hand of a younger 4th generation male who will follow when he is old enough.

But most of all during a Pow Wow we hear how Today, even with many a tribe represented by Native  American Attorneys, tribes are still not able to get the compensation promised by the government who acted for the people who are mostly white people and today, tribes still fight to keep corporations that want the use of their land, often to string electricity or to mine minerals or graze cattle or dam water so it does not flow into native lands. This is an on-going fight and in spite of Native American's educated in the law tribes still do not receive the compensation owed. Some Native Americans are angry that land rights given to their grandfathers was blantantly taken by unscrupulous whites and our government has done nothing to help them get back their heritage.  I think visiting a Pow Wow may bring out in a non-threatening manner the lack of justice still experienced by Native Americans.

bluebird - glad  you found us and welcome - here is a link to a bio of Ilan Shamir
http://www.treegreetings.com/PressPacket/Ilan_Shamir_bio.pdf

And here is another "Tree" poem describing autumn.

The Tree of Scarlet Berries
by Amy Lowell

The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.

[Babi]

 No apology needed, JACKIE. One's reactions to wrongs take own a new
dimension when they hit close to home.
  I have Cherokee blood myself, and find myself proud to know they developed
a written language. It might be fun to see the dances at the PowWow, BARB,
but being deaf means I can only learn something new from reading. I do
know the Native Americans are still fighting for rights, but we are seeing
more victories now.

Here is a Cherokee prayer:

As I walk the trail of life
in the fear of the wind and rain,
grant O Great Spirit
that I may always walk
like a man

[mrssherlock]

Babi:  That is beautiful.

[BarbStAubrey]

for a second time this fall we return to the poetry of Native Americans - here is a contemporary prayer written near the end of this Chief's life.

ALL IS FINISHED

I wanted to give something of my past
To my Grandson.
I told him that I would sing
The sacred Wolf Song over him.
In my song I appealed to the wolf
To come and preside over us,
While I perform the Wolf Ceremony.
So that the bondage between my Grandson
and the wolf would be life long.

I SANG.

IN MY VOICE WAS THE HOPE
THAT CLINGS TO EVERY HEARTBEAT.

I SANG.

IN MY WORDS WERE THE POWERS
I INHERITED FROM MY FOREFATHERS.

I SANG.

IN MY CUPPED HANDS LAY A SPRUCE SEED..
THE LINK TO CREATION.

I SANG.

IN MY EYES, SPARKLED LOVE.

And the song floated
On the Sun's rays from tree to tree.
When I had ended,
It was if the whole world
Listened with us
To hear the wolf's reply.
We waited a long time
But none came.
Again I SANG,
Humbly
But as invitingly as I could,
Until my throat ached
And my voice gave out.

All of a sudden  
I realized why no wolves had heard
My SACRED SONG.
There were none left!

My heart filled with tears.
I could no longer
Give my Grandson
Faith in the past, our past.
I...wept in silence.
ALL IS FINISHED!

CHIEF DAN GEORGE SALISH
(1899-1981)

[mrssherlock]

Oh, no!

[Babi]

That is a terribly sad poem, BARB.  What a heartbreaking end to a lifetime.

 I've found a simple November kind of poem, that may soothe us
a bit.

  "How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.
 
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow."
-   Elsie N. Brady, Leaves

[mrssherlock]

  Babi:  Perfect antidote. 

[mrssherlock]

Here is another whimsy by Frost; was it posted earlier?

Gathering Leaves

by Robert Frost
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
   

[BarbStAubrey]

The more I thought of the loss of wolves the more confused I became - I started by saying in my head "If Only..." but then realized there were two cultures and the feeding of a growing nation at stake. We think of greed and yet, when wolves roamed most ranchers could not afford the loss of an animal worth hundreds of dollars. All sorts of social and moral issues come to play as the maintenance of an increased populating takes the culture of another.

My thoughts  included how much sadness over loss is part of our weekly diet once we are of a certain age. Loss of being fully able with unlimited energy, the loss of being in the center of building a family. For some of us the loss of loved ones, the loss of place, if not literally then the town has changed we hardly recognize where we live - on and on the little and large sadness's are part of aging.

For me even the church service is so changed that I feel I am attending a circus rather than anything that brings me closer to a love of God. That is when I feel futile and bury myself in the music and readings that transport my spirit to another place.

When I was in my "If only..." phase I wondered if there was any poems written that talked of 'If only,,,' and found this from Emily Dickinson which sounds like a poem of unrequited love.

If you were coming in the fall

If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.

Van Diemen's Land is now Tasmania.

[BarbStAubrey]

Conrad Aiken had experienced death as no child should and yet he wrote this poem.

Morning Song of Senlin

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my father learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in the saffron mist and seem to die
And I myself upon a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie,

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face! -
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea...
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me...

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the star.

Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail track shines on the stones.
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a cloud of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.

The earth revolves around with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with the rains...
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor...

  ... it is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know...

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

[BarbStAubrey]

Ahhh and a true master writes -- William Butler Yeats

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

[mrssherlock]

The name, Conrad Aiken, is a familiar one but I find I know nothing about him.  This poem has piqued my curiosity and I will be reading more. These poems fit my somber mood as the sun continues its southward trek and the days grow darker, grayer, wetter with rain and fog.  I'm going to get some of those daylight bulbs to see if I respond to "sunlight" in a more positive frame of mind.  Retirement is becoming more like a "sentence" than an adventure and gloomy fall/winter weather doesn't help.

[Babi]

BARB, the Dickinson and the Aiken both held me spellbound. What great poems.  Yeats transformation of fish to girl left me a bit bewildered; not
my idea of a romantic thought.   And of course,...says my practical mind..how can one hook a fish with a berry?

[mrssherlock]

On Monday I was treated to a two volcano day.  Due east was Mt. Hood; slightly south and east was Mt. Jefferson.  So my thoughts turned to poetry.  I found this one:

I Have Never Seen "Volcanoes"
By Emily Dickinson   

I have never seen "Volcanoes" --
But, when Travellers tell
How those old -- phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still --

Bear within -- appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men --

If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place --

If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome --
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?

If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"!
To the Hills return!

[mrssherlock]

Emily Dickinson - A still -- Volcano -- Life --

A still -- Volcano -- Life --
That flickered in the night --
When it was dark enough to do
Without erasing sight --

A quiet -- Earthquake Style --
Too subtle to suspect
By natures this side Naples --
The North cannot detect

The Solemn -- Torrid -- Symbol --
The lips that never lie --
Whose hissing Corals part -- and shut --
And Cities -- ooze away --