To Elsie The pure remind themselves of the ballads of their youth.

The quiet, sweet feud of the uphill thruway— shining along into those branches of trees—

but only for an instant, with the bliss of the small lights that glide on the dusk.

The street so pale just as rain begins to fall, from the dark and the grey

about the rain, yearning, the rapture to crush the light onto watercolor—

meandering perhaps across until I am lost in your habitat.

Out of this will come music!

O Love, be satisfied.

The stove gawks into the wet land in the middle of this infinite possibly green grove.

Ah! Light. Your rain.

Be amazed, my sweet Embers—

become dusts and burns, all My iris.

My dear, for this tongue, warms toward evening.

When it, cease—

• William Carlos Williams