Orphean Lost

The oakboughs of the cottagers
descend, my lover,
with the bestial evening.
The shadows of their swelled trunks
crush with frugal herb.
The heights lag
and perish in a blue vacuum.

And I, my lover,
skirt the cottages,
the eternal hearths and gloom,
to animate the ideal
with internal passion.

Carl Rakosi
    

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