Women have no wilderness in them,   They are provident instead, Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

The moving sun-shapes on the spray, The sparkles where the brook was flowing, Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,

Some of the documents that came today  Were fastened with beautiful staples  The color of dayflowers  For me who had known not

To make layers,  As if they were a steadiness of days: 

When you have forgotten (to bring into                 Play that fragrant morsel of rhetoric,  Crisp as autumnal air), when you