Yvor Winters

Dark Spring

My mother
Foresaw deaths
And walked among
Chrysanthemums,
Winecolored,
Withe red rose,
The earthy blossoms.
 
My very breath
Disowned
In nights of study,
And page by page
I came on spring.
 
The rats run on the roof,
These words come hard—
Sadder than cockcrow
In a dreamless, earthen sleep.
The Christ, eternal
In the scented cold; my love,
Her hand on the sill
White, as if out of earth;
And spring, the sleep of the dead.
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