The surviving lilac bush is all but bare, its small, heart-shaped leaves lying among the larger and more elaborate oak leaves and the still larger, oblong leaves of the walnut tree, now covering almost all of the lawn. Branches and twigs lately exposed are like a stiff, tortuous veil the landscape wears against the sun's prying eye. Afternoon passes, hushed and still, and evening brings only the slightest breezes to dislodge a few more dead leaves.
One more sunny and clear day is due, and then clouds will begin to form again, relieving the sky of its recent monotony. Still, it will be too warm to feel like December. I grow impatient for winter's arrival. Let's get on with it and get it over with. Already, the green shoots and buds of spring lurk in my imagination.
by Hart Crane
The apple on its bough is her desire,—
Shining suspension, mimic of the sun.
The bough has caught her breath up, and her voice,
Dumbly articulate in the slant and rise
Of branch on branch above her, blurs her eyes.
She is prisoner of the tree and its green fingers.
And so she comes to dream herself the tree,
The wind possessing her, weaving her young veins,
Holding her to the sky and its quick blue,
Drowning the fever of her hands in sunlight.
She has no memory, nor fear, nor hope
Beyond the grass and shadows at her feet.