March
Awake to the cold light
of wet wind running
twigs in tremors. Walls
are naked. Twilights raw —
and when the sun taps steeples
their glistenings dwindle
upward . . .
March
slips along the ground
like a mouse under pussy
willows, a little hungry.
The vagrant ghost of winter,
is it this that keeps the chimney
busy still? For something
still nudges shingles and windows:
but waveringly,— this ghost,
this slate-eyed saintly wraith
of winter wanes
and knows its waning.
~~
Hart Crane (1899-1932)
from Collected Poems, 1933
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]
"March" read by Thomas D.
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