Mid-Day

H. D., 1886 – 1961

The light beats upon me.

I am startled—

a split leaf crackles on the paved floor—

I am anguished—defeated.

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods—

my thoughts are spent

as the black seeds.

My thoughts tear me,

I dread their fever.

I am scattered in its whirl.

I am scattered like

the hot shrivelled seeds.

The shrivelled seeds

are spilt on the path—

the grass bends with dust,

the grape slips

under its crackled leaf:

yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,

and the blackened stalks of mint,

the poplar is bright on the hill,

the poplar spreads out,

deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you are great

among the hill-stones,

while I perish on the path

among the crevices of the rocks.