The Coming of Winter [Poem]Author(s): Frederick MorganSource: The Sewanee Review, Vol. 58, No. 3 (Jul. - Sep., 1950), p. 454Published by: The Johns Hopkins University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/27538014 .

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454 SEVEN POEMS

The old woman gathering faggots in the smoky wood

spoke me a charm one day at the end of the hedge where the road ends, one dark day of September:

Fall and burn, fall and burn the dead leaves fall the dead men burn

the smoke coils thick in the underworld:

of men and women the tale is told.

THE COMING OF WINTER

In purest air above the tableland

beats the transparent heart and prophesies forms of pure song prouder than all sound.

In flux and reflux of systaltic tides the dawn-wind sweeps the thistled fields and drives

my gray blood pulsing through the speechless skies toward the city of the cold.

IV. By VERNON WATKINS

THE SHELL

Who could devise But the dark sea this thing Of depth, of dyes Claws of weed cling,

Whose color cries:

"I am of water, as of air the wing,"

Yet holds the eyes

As though they looked on music perishing?

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