In The Carolinas
The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter
above the cabins.
Already the new-born children
interpret love
In the voices of mothers.
Timeless mothers,
How is it that your aspic nipples
For once vent honey?
The pine-tree sweetens my body
The white iris beautifies me.
Wallace Stevens
Posted over on Poemhunter
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