October-November
by Hart Crane
Indian-summer-sun
With crimson feathers whips away the mists,--
Dives through the filter of trellises
And gilds the silver on the blotched arbor-seats.
Now gold and purple scintillate
On trees that seem dancing
In delirium;
Then the moon
In a mad orange flare
Floods the grape-hung night.
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Know there is a fine specimen of wood beside that tree
ReplyDeleteBeautiful imagery in today's poem, Joe. And an equally beautiful picture to accompany it. You have a true talent for finding just the right photo for each post. Thank you.
ReplyDelete