H. L. Davis

From “To the River Beach”

I CAN shake the wild hay, and wet seed sticks to my hand.

The white lower stalks seem solid. Yellow flowers

Grow in the sun, with dog fennel, near apple trees.

White petals carry to this water. So plants breed.

But I, the man who would have put up his life

Against less pleasure than yours, against your black hair

And your deep mouth, ask that no man my friend

Find me in this wild hay now or tonight

To remind me how worthless this was which was so dear.

It is late for me to see grass-stalks my first time,

And for this trouble of spirit to come to an end.