Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.