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| Theodore Roethke |
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| Elegy for Jane (My student, thrown by a horse) | ||||
| I remember her neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils; And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile; And how, once startled into talk, the light syllabels leaped from her And she balanced, in the delight of her thought, A wren, happy, tail into the wind, Her song trembling the twigs and small branches. The shade sang with her; Their leaves, the whisper turned to kissing; And the mold sang in the bleached valleys under the rose. Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth, Even a father could not find her: Scraping her cheeck against straw; Stirring the clearest water. My sparrow you are not here, Waiting like a fern, making a spiny shadow. The sides of wet stones cannot console me, Nor the moss, wound with the last light. If only I could nudge you from this sleep, My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon. Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love: I with no rights in this matter, Neither father nor lover. |
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