  A sky that has never known sun, moon, or stars, A sky that is like a dead, kind face Would have the color of your eyes, O servant-girl singing of pear-trees in the sun And scraping the yellow fruit you once picked When your lavender-white eyes were alive. On the porch above you sit two women With faces the color of dry brown earth; They knit grey rosettes and nibble cakes. And on the porch above them are three children Gravely kissing each other’s foreheads, And an ample nurse with a huge red fan.... The death of the afternoon to them Is but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls. |
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