855. Echoes, by Hart Crane


Slivers of rain upon the pane,
Jade-green with sunlight, melt and flow
Upward again:—they leave no stain
Of all the storm an hour ago.


Over the hill a last cloud dips
And disappears, and I should go
As silently but that your lips
Are warmed with a redder glow.


Fresh and fragile, your arms now
Are circles of cool roses,—so...
In opal pools beneath your brow
I dream we quarreled long, long ago.

Source: The Complete Poems of Hart Crane

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