Solemn-thoughted love prepares
For a long love; she stares
Into the widening ring
Of spinning spring
And sees winter cares,
So deep and serious is she.

From the rocky brook she sees
The flight, beneath the boughs, of the bees
And learns their route—
Circuitious as a tune for a flute—
That ends in near flowers
Up until the latest hours.

Her look travels as far
As the house with forty windows, and its car,
Encircled by oaks and willows meant to keep
Privacy from harm, where a silent soul can weep
Awake, and awake, drift that way into sleep.

Solemn-thoughted love goes out
To where the crowds shout
And stays hidden to inspect life:
Shouting husband and shouting wife
And the children, too, raising their voices
To make hollow, shrill sounds and hollow choices.

Solemn-thoughted love wants to write
The poem, but cannot,
For the picture fades from sight—
She reflects, but cannot get it right—
The simplest dimensions of a yard
Falters—she picks up
A pencil—but it is too hard!

Solemn-thoughted love lies down
And, almost slumbering, listens for the sound
Of love, but love cannot be heard
In air or earth, in farm, or bird
Scratching, or flying to get free.
Her eyes saw love once—and it was me.

I saw this view:
Evening distance, shadowy, blue
Bleeding into misty hills which fell
Gradually into middle distance
And then, what I knew—
Close and distorted, but you.

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