“44. The hawthorn trembles in rain and ice” in “Musing”
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.
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