The Least Movement

A sighing nature is soft amid collecting droplets, A sudden kindred, their leaves cut like limbs, Fresh as copper pans in the wet mornings
Whispering health.

And yet this slant of springs timeout, Many dreams unfold
Into such pulses
That tremble riches, vein their claret.

Listen! they come gyrant
Among the rings till soaked, Keeping all in warm heaven, day.

• Marianne Moore