From "Feathers to Iron"
-1931

VI
Now she is like the white tree-rose
That takes a blessing from the sun:
Summer has filled her veins with light,
And her warm heart is washed with noon.

Or, as a poplar, ceaselessly,
Gives a soft answer to the wind:
Cool on the light her leaves lie sleeping,
Folding a column of sweet sing...

Powder the stars. Forbid the night
To wear those brilliants for a brooch:
So soon, dark death, you may close down
The mines that made this beauty rich.

Her thoughts are Pleiads, stooping low
O`er glades where nightingale has flown:
And like the luminous night around her
She has at her heart a certain dawn.

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