Issue 15, Winter 1956
No, nothing is asleep in this demesne
Of scrub pine, washed-out oak; the wet
Intrudes on every cache,
And feathered throats complain
That the rude wind is tramping through the brush
In streams of sweat.
There are deep holes beneath the sodden thatch
And under rocks and rotten logs,
Where you may press your eyes
Like fingers on a latch
Opening caverns pungent with surprise:
Three watchful dogs
With eyes as big as candles or chime-clocks
Sit on a heaped-up treasury
And will not wink or doze.
But where’s the tinder box
To fetch the sleeping princess in her nightclothes
Or kindle the vault where Juliet lies asleep
Dreaming of sunlight on a sheet?
Under the spongy turf
Not closeted or deep
A girl lies dead: and the dying needles beat
On her face like surf.