Standing next to a large white pot
Filled to overflowing with orange
And yellow snapdragons, my old
Coonhound looks across the dew-
Strewn lawn at the magnolia tree.
Suddenly, from somewhere deep
Within the squall of all those big
And sloppy blossoms, a desolate
Call rings out.
This morning, still
And warm, heavy with the smells
Of gardenia and Chinese wisteria,
The first few beams of spring sun-
Light filtering through the flower-
Crowded boughs of the magnolia,
I cannot conceive a more genuine,
More merciful, form of happiness
In a single, black and ragged line,
The shadow of the magnolia tree
Draws nearer to the flower pots.
The coonhound lowers her snout
To its dark edge—. What was it
We heard call out so mournfully?
To what heartbreak would a call
Like that be heir? The air is still,