Wild pitching her hair torn
Wind about stopped now still
Running to knock the morning down.
Twice but not the strange orange of
The piece read again and again
Wait in any case within the loose
Summer, a friend who rises to the street
Might do much worse.
God knew the hurry to speak
Of cooler, younger music
Excuse the letter, now, fondest would-be,
How to know the mind, the heart