VIII
A clear morning 
and another—yet another; 
a meadow bright with dew; 
blue hills
rising from a lake of mist; 
single flowers 
bright against a white-washed wall 
and scattered 
in the grass; 
flowers in broad beds 
beside the narrow walk; 
look, soldiers of Ulysses, 
your spears 
have begun to flower, too.


IX
The grass is high beside the asphalt 
and yellow poppies and small blue flowers are growing 
where the rains have washed earth upon it from the bank.
I see only the old prints of a dog.
A bird runs before me, 
stops and runs again 
with a querulous cry: 
I suppose it would be no use telling it 
this is a sidewalk 
made by a man for men.