PARTISAN REVIEW
what we have lost in the anticipation-
a descent follows,
endless and indestructible
Ill
On
this
most voluptuous night of the
year
the term of the moon is yellow
with
no light
the air's soft, the night bird has
only one note, the cherry tree in bloom
makes a blurr on the woods, its perfume,
no more than half guessed, moves in the mind.
No insect is yet awake, leaves are few.
In the arching trees there
is
no sleep.
The blood is still and indifferent, the face
does not ache nor sweat soil nor the
mouth thirst. Now love might enjoy its play
and nothing disturb the slow octave of its run.
216
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