44.

The hawthorn trembles in rain and ice

The peril of exile on my head

As you walk in the orchard, the squander

Of sun spread on the water, and the wind

Scatters these words: neither cares about

Courtly love. That is quaint beside the rubble,

The dead stacked up like wood. The poets lie

Between truth and lies, the scent of roses

Cuts the nose like a thorn. Those eyes gaze

At the pond where Narcissus fell, a servant

To a kind of love that hides behind claims

To a love far greater. The hills breathe with snow

And the Midi sun burns off its accident

And I yearn for a touch that will not dissolve.