I merrily picked to whistle with
A lady all in green, so lithe
In curtsy to the bulging, bare
Blue wind, I heard the meadow swear.

Therefore, in the hairy gown
I dug my fury from my heart,
And a green tree broke down…
Thieved the sun of copper darts.

The sea of blades the leaped and flew,
Scathed my ankles, made me wade
For the shadows, chased by butterflies.

And then, what did that bird do
Sitting in the criss-cross shade
With pepper in his olive eyes?

He made the wind among the boughs
My brother; and the grasses, waves
Of quaking men; and the white cows
Munching straw, like human graves.

He spied my fury in the grass,
And slew in with a pious flash.
But ill was done: my whistling bride
Gangrened in my hand, and died.

Last Modified 1 July 2007
© David Lyttle 1959, 2007