Back to Index


by Hart Crane, 1918

With crimson feathers whips away the mists,—
Dives through the filter of trellises
And gilds the silver on the blotched arbor-seats.

Now gold and purple scintillate
On trees that seem dancing
In delirium;
Then the moon
In a mad orange flare
Floods the grape-hung night.

Tags: aging, landscapes, nature, nostalgia

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.