We headed out to the orchard
And looked for a while
It seemed all right
The apples weren’t complaining
The Bird of the Mountains
Was strolling around
Making up a little song
Maybe to the sun
Or for his special friends
Or his sweetheart
Or just to himself
And maybe for no reason
That anybody could tell you about
Sort of like I’m doing right now

We go out together into the staring town
And buy cheese and bread and little jugs with flowered labels

Everywhere is a tent for us to put on our whirling show

A great deal has been said of the handless serpents
Which war has set loose in the gay milk of our heads

But because you braid your hair and taste like honey of heaven
We go together into town and buy wine and yellow candles

O this is celebration enough for twenty worlds!

Because the snow is deep
Without spot that white falling through white air

Because she limps a little—bleeds
Where they shot her

Because hunters have guns
And dogs have hangmen’s legs

Because I’d like to take her in my arms
And tend her wound

Because she can’t afford to die
Killing the young in her belly

I don’t know what to say of a soldier’s dying
Because there are no proportions in death

The sea is awash with roses O they blow
Upon the land

The still hills fill with their scent
O the hills flow on their sweetness
As on God’s hand

O love, it is so little we know of pleasure
Pleasure that lasts as the snow

But the sea is awash with roses O they blow
Upon the land

I painted the leaves of bushes red
And shouted “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed.
“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.
Then they cut down my bushes,
And made a bonfire,
And danced about it.
But I covered my face and wept,
For ashes are not beautiful
Even in the dawn.