IV

Morning

When the painter takes his brush,
When the heart its colours knows
And then the sounds begin to weave
The harmonies of their intent,
The man puts by his sorry work,
The woman lays her cares aside;
In the dance of sexual harmony
They speak the contented words:

"Oh whispering-grass beneath the orange trees,
You shiver there in the shrill, hot wind;
It shakes you into green shivering-grass,
Whispering of the white flecks on your stems.

You rise into the golden glowing orange;
You pet the crimson poppy with your growth;
The black-brown twigs of the orange tree
Crumble away as the sap is turned to juice.

Oh whispering shivering-grass in the clover bed,
You comfort the creeping, little columbine:
All the life beneath the tree watches you!"