Hart Crane


Slivers of rain upon the pane,
Jade-green with sunlight, melt and flow
Upward again:”they leave no stain
Of all the storm an hour ago.

Over the hill a last cloud dips
And disappears, and I should go
As silently but that your lips
Are warmer with a redder glow.

Fresh and fragile, your arms now
Are circles of cool roses,”so. . . .
In opal pools beneath your brow
I dream we quarreled long, long ago.