XXIX
The sun sinks
through the grey heavens—
no brighter than the moon;

from the tower
in single notes
the winter music of the bells.

A stooping Negress walking slowly
through the slowly falling snow.

XXX
In your warm room,
do not judge by that line of clothes
behind the wall of the warehouse—
in the sunshine;
on other roofs
other lines of clothes
turn and twist;
yes, a cold wind is blowing.
The pigeons will not rise
from their roof;
fly to the coop, find the door closed,
and huddle on top,
facing east, away from the wind.

XXXI
The sky is cloudy
but the clouds—
as the long day ends—
are pearl and rose;
spring has come
to the streets,
spring has come to the sky.

Sit still
beside the open window
and let the wind
the gentle wind,
blow in your face;

sit still
and fold your hands—
empty your heart of thoughts,
your mind of dreams.