A Grave
To the dead
the monarchs of season, Leaves drift and sway, while fresh mold escapes outside the roots.
It is always so quiet, no song reflects; it is always so many faces— the distance flies yet finds its center.
- Marianne Moore
A Grave
To the dead
the monarchs of season, Leaves drift and sway, while fresh mold escapes outside the roots.
It is always so quiet, no song reflects; it is always so many faces— the distance flies yet finds its center.